Full text of "Poems"
'W
Presented to the
LIBRARY of the
UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
by
THE ESTATE OF THE LATE
MARY SINCLAIR
6 "^
i^SEE
Presented to the
LIBRARY of the
UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
by
THE ESTATE OF THE LATE
MARY SINCLAIR
POEMS OF
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
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POEMS
OF
ELLA WHEELER
WILCOX
EDINBURGH :
W. P. NIMMO, HAY, & MITCHELL
V
,aUG 3 0 B66
111593*J
ConicnU
Introductory Verses
PAGE
II
POEMS OF PASSION
Love's Language
Impatience
Communism
The Common Lot .
Individuality .
Upon the Sand
** The Beautiful Blue Danube '
Answered
Through the Valley
The Duet
Little Queen
Wherefore
Delilah ....
5
13
14
16
17
18
20
20
22
23
24
26
27
28
6 CONTENTS
PAGE
Change ......... 29
A Waltz-Quadrille 31
Tired 32
Conversion ........ 33
Old and New 34
Ad Finem ........ 35
You will Forget Me 37
Progress ......... 38
Show Me the Way 39
Solitude 40
The Beautiful Land of Nod 41
I will be Worthy of it 42
Earnestness 43
POEMS OF PLEASURE
Surrender
. 45
The Way of it .
. . . . 46
Angel or Demon
47
Blas^
. 50
Three and One
. 51
Inborn
. 52
Two Prayers .
. 53
Love Much
. 54
One of us Two
. , . . 56
Two Sinners .
. . . , 56
What Love is .
. . . . 58
Constancy
• 59
CONTENTS
Resolve .
Optimism
Answered Prayers
The Lady of Tears
Secret Thoughts
There Comes a Time
Necessity
Achievements .
Belief
Whatever is — is Best
Peace of the Goal
Desire
Deathless
The Fault of the Age
Artist and Man
Babyland .
A Face
Entre-Acte Reveries
A Plea .
The Room Beneath the
An Old Fan .
No Classes ! .
A Grey Mood .
At an Old Drawer
The City .
Woman .
The Lost Land
Life's Journey ,
Rafters
8 CONTENTS
PAGE
The Actor 88
New Year 89
Now 90
POEMS OF LIFE
A Song of Life 93
Nothing but Stones 94
Gethsemane . . 96
Momus, God of Laughter ..... 97
The Two Glasses . . . . . . .98
What we Need .100
Is it Done? 102
Burdened. ........ 103
In the Long Run . . . . . .103
A Song 105
To Marry or Not to Marry ? A Girl's Reverie . 106
POEMS OF LOVE
*' Sweet Danger" . . . . .
. 109
A Maiden's Secret .
.
. IIO
A Baby in the House
„
. Ill
I Told You
• r •
. 113
A Waif .
t •
. 114
One Woman's Plea .
. "5
If ... .
t
. 117
Limitless .
. 118
CONTENTS
POEMS OF REFLECTION
Bohemia .
Lines from *' Maurine "
When
Sunshine and Shadow
The Belle's Soliloquy
The Musicians
PAGE
121
122
123
124
126
OF
Oh, you who read some song that I have sung- —
What know you of the soul from whence it sprung ?
Dost dream the poet ever speaks aloud
His secret thought unto the listening crowd ?
Go take the murmuring sea-shell from the shore —
You have its shape, its colour — and no more.
It tells not one of those vast mysteries
That lie beneath the surface of the seas.
Our songs are shells, cast out by waves of thought ;
Here, take them at your pleasure ; but think not
You've seen beneath the surface of the waves,
Where lie our shipwrecks, and our coral caves.
oentB of (pa66ton
LOVE'S LANGUAGE.
How does Love speak ?
In the faint flush upon the telltale cheek,
And in the pallor that succeeds it ; by
The quivering lid of an averted eye —
The smile that proves the parent to a sigh —
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak ?
By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak
Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache,
While new emotions, like strange barges,
make
Along vein-channels their disturbing course ;
Still as the dawn, and with the dawn's swift
force —
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak ?
In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek —
The haughty heart grown humble ; in the tender
And unnamed light that floods the world
with splendour,
13
14 , POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace
In all fair things to one beloved face ;
In the shy touch of hands that thrill and
tremble ;
In looks and lips that can no more dissemble —
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak ?
In the wild words that uttered seem so
weak
They shrink ashamed to silence ; in the fire
Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing
high and higher,
Like lightnings that precede the mighty
storm ;
In the deep, soulful stillness ; in the warm,
Impassioned tide that sweeps through throb-
bing veins.
Between the shores of keen delights and
pains ;
In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,
And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss —
Thus doth Love speak.
IMPATIENCE.
How can I wait until you come to me ?
The once fleet mornings linger by the
way ;
Their sunny smiles touched with malicious
glee
At my unrest, they seem to pause, and play
Like truant children, while I sigh and say,
How can I wait ?
IMPATIENCE 15
How can I wait ? Of old, the rapid hours
Refused to pause or loiter with me long" ;
But now they idly fill their hands with flowers,
And make no haste, but slowly stroll among
The summer blooms, not heeding my one
song,
How can I wait ?
How can I wait ? The nights alone are kind ;
They reach forth to a future day, and bring
Sweet dreams of you to people all my mind ;
And time speeds by on light and airy wing.
I feast upon your face, I no more sing,
How can I wait?
How can I wait ? The morning breaks the
spell
A pitying night has flung upon my soul.
You are not near me, and I know full well
My heart has need of patience and control ;
Before we meet, hours, days, and weeks
must roll.
How can I wait ?
How can I wait? Oh, love, how can I wait
Until the sunlight of your eyes shall shine
Upon my world that seems so desolate?
Until your hand-clasp warms my blood like
wine ;
Until you come again, oh. Love of mine,
How can I wait?
i6 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
COMMUiNISM.
When my blood flows calm as a purling- river,
When my heart is asleep and my brain has
sway,
It is then that I vow we must part forever,
That I will forget you, and put you av/ay
Out of my life, as a dream is banished
Out of my mind when the dreamer awakes ;
That I know it will be when the spell has
vanished,
Better for both of our sakes.
When the court of the mind is ruled by Reason,
I know it is wiser for us to part ;
But Love is a spy who is plotting treason.
In league with that warm, red rebel, the
Heart.
They whisper to me that the King is cruel.
That his reign is wicked, his law a sin,
And every word they utter is fuel
To the flame that smoulders within.
And on nights like this, when my blood runs
riot
With the fever of youth and its mad desires,
When my brain in vain bids my heart be quiet,
When my breast seems the centre of lava-
fires,
Oh, then is the time when most I miss you.
And I swear by the stars and my soul and
say,
That I will have you, and hold you, and kiss
you,
Though the whole world stands in the way.
THE COMMON LOT . 17
And like Communists, as mad, as disloyal,
My fierce emotions roam out of their lair ;
They hate King Reason for being royal —
They would fire his castle, and burn him
there.
O love ! they would clasp you, and crush you,
and kill you.
In the insurrection of uncontrol.
Across the miles, does this wild war thrill you
That is raging in my soul ?
THE COMMON LOT.
It is a common fate — a woman's lot —
To waste on one the riches of her soul,
Who takes the wealth she gives him, but
cannot
Repay the interest, and much less the whole.
As I look up into your eyes, and wait
For some response to my fond gaze and touch,
It seems to me there is no sadder fate
Than to be doomed to loving overmuch.
Are you not kind ? Ah yes, so very kind —
So thoughtful of my comfort, and so true.
Yes, yes, dear heart ; but I, not being blind.
Know that I am not loved, as I love you.
One tenderer word, a little longer kiss,
Will fill my soul with music and with song ;
And if you seem abstracted, or I miss
The heart-tone from your voice, my world
goes wrong.
B
i8 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
And oftentimes you think me childish — weak —
When at some thoughtless word the tears
will start ;
You cannot understand how aught you speak
Has power to stir the depths of my poor
heart.
I cannot help it, dear — I wish 1 could,
Or feign indifference where I now adore ;
For if I seemed to love you less you would,
Manlike, I have no doubt, love me the more.
'Tis a sad gift, that much applauded thing,
A constant heart ; for fact doth daily prove
That constancy finds oft a cruel sting,
While fickle natures win the deeper love.
INDIVIDUALITY.
0 YES, I love you, and with all my heart ;
Just as a weaker woman loves her own,
Better than I love my beloved art.
Which, till you came, reigned royally, alone.
My king, my master. Since I saw your face
1 have dethroned it, and you hold that place.
I am as weak as other women are —
Your frown can make the whole world like a
tomb.
Your smile shines brighter than the sun, by far ;
Sometimes I think there is not space or
room
In all the earth for such a love as mine.
And it soars up to breathe in realms divme.
INDIVIDUALITY 19
I know that your desertion or neglect
Could break my heart, as women's hearts
do break,
If my wan days had nothing to expect
From your love's splendour, all joy would
forsake
The chambers of my soul. Yes, this is true.
And yet, and yet — one thing I keep from you.
There is a subtle part of me, which went
Into my long pursued and worshipped art ;
Though your great love fills me with such
content
No other love finds room now, in my heart.
Yet that rare essence was my art's alone.
Thank God you cannot grasp it ; 'tis mine
own.
Thank God, I say, for while I love you so,
With that vast love, as passionate as tender,
I feel an exultation as I know
I have not made you a complete surrender.
Here is my body ; bruise it, if you will.
And break my heart ; I have that something
still.
You cannot grasp it. Seize the breath of morn,
Or bind the perfume of the rose as well.
God put it in my soul when I was born ;
It is not mine to give away, or sell,
Or oflfer up on any altar shrine.
It was my art's ; and when not art's, 'tis mine.
For love's sake, I can put the art away,
Or anything which stands 'twixt me and
you.
20 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
But that strange essence God bestowed, I
say,
To permeate the work He gave to do :
And it cannot be drained, dissolved, or sent
Through any channel, save the one He meant.
UPON THE SAND.
All love that has not friendship for its base,
Is like a mansion built upon the sand.
Though brave its walls as any in the land.
And its tall turrets lift their heads in grace ;
Though skilful and accomplished artists trace
Most beautiful designs on every hand,
And gleaming statues in dim niches stand.
And fountains play in some flow'r- hidden
place,
Yet, when from the frowning east a sudden
gust
Of adverse fate is blown, or sad rains fall
Day in, day out, against Its yielding wall,
Lo ! the fair structure crumbles to the dust.
Love, to endure life's sorrow and earth's woe.
Needs friendship's solid masonwork below.
"THE BEAUTIFUL BLUE DANUBE.
They drift down the hall together ;
He smiles in her lifted eyes.
Like waves of that mighty river.
The strains of the " Danube " rise.
«*THE BEAUTIFUL BLUE DANUBE" 21
They float on its rhythmic measure,
Like leaves on a summer-stream ;
And here, in this scene of pleasure,
I bury my sweet, dead dream.
Through the cloud of her dusky tresses,
Like a star, shines out her face ;
And the form his strong arm presses
Is sylph-like in its grace.
As a leaf on the bounding river
Is lost in the seething sea,
I know that forever and ever
My dream is lost to me.
And still the viols are playing
That grand old wordless rhyme ;
And still those two are swaying
In perfect tune and time.
If the great bassoons that mutter,
If the clarionets that blow.
Were given a voice to utter
The secret things they know.
Would the lists of the slain who slumber
On the Danube's battle-plains
The unknown hosts outnumber
Who die 'neath the '* Danube's " strains ?
Those fall where cannons rattle,
'Mid the rain of shot and shell ;
But these, in a fiercer battle,
Find death in the music's swell.
With the river's roar of passion.
Is blended the dying groan ;
But here, in the halls of fashion.
Hearts break, and make no moan.
22 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
And the music, swelling and sweeping,
Like the river, knows it all ;
But none are counting or keeping
The lists of these who fall.
ANSWERED.
Good-bye — yes, I am going.
Sudden ? Well, you are right.
But a startling truth came home to me
With sudden force last night.
What is it? shall I tell you—
Nay, that is why I go.
I am running away from the battlefield,
Turning my back on the foe.
Riddles ? You think me cruel !
Have you not been most kind ?
Why, when you question me like that
What answer can I find ?
You fear you failed to amuse me,
Your husband's friend and guest.
Whom he bade you entertain and please —
Well, you have done your best.
Then why am I going !
A friend of mine abroad.
Whose theories I have been acting upon,
Has proven himself a fraud.
You have heard me quote from Plato
A thousand times no doubt ;
Well, I have discovered he did not know
W^hat he was talking about.
THROUGH THE VALLEY
You think I am speaking strangely ?
You cannot understand ?
Well, let me look down into your eyes,
And let me take your hand.
I am running away from danger —
I am flying before I fall ;
I am going because with heart and soul
I love you — that is all.
There, now, you are white with anger,
I knew it would be so.
You should not question a man too close
When he tells you he must go.
THROUGH THE VALLEYS
[after JAMES THOMSON.]
As I came through the Valley of Despair,
As I came through the valley, on my sight,
More awful than the darkness of the night,
Shone glimpses of a Past that had been fair.
And memories of eyes that used to smile.
And wafts of perfume from a vanished
isle.
As I came through the valley.
As I came through the valley I could see
As I came through the valley, fair and far,
As drowning men look up and see a star.
The fading shore of my lost Used-to-be ;
And like an arrow in my heart I heard
The last sad notes of Hope's expiring bird.
As I came through the valley.
24 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
As I came through the valley desolate,
As I came through the valley, like a beam
Of lurid lightning I beheld a gleam
Of Love's great eyes that now were full of
hate.
Dear God ! dear God ! I could bear all but
that ;
But I fell down soul-stricken, dead, thereat,
As I came through the valley.
THE DUET.
I WAS smoking a cigarette ;
Maud, my wife, and the tenor McKey,
Were singing together a blithe duet.
And days it were better I should forget
Came suddenly back to me.
Days when life seemed a gay masque ball,
And to love and be loved was the sum of it all.
As they sang together, the whole scene fled,
The room's rich hangings, the sweet home air,
Stately Maud, with her proud blonde head.
And I seemed to see in her place instead
A wealth of blue-black hair,
And a face, ah ! your face — yours, Lisette,
A face it were wiser I should forget.
We were back — well, no matter when or
where.
But you remember, I know, Lisette,
I saw you, dainty, and debonnaire.
With the very same look that you used to wear
In the days I should forget.
THE DUET 25
And your lips, as red, as the vintage we
quaflfed,
Were pearl-edged bumpers of wine when you
laughed.
Two small slippers with big rosettes,
Peeped out under your kilt-skirt there,
While we sat smoking our cigarettes
(Oh, I shall be dust when my heart forgets !)
And singing that self-same air ;
And between the verses for interlude,
I kissed your throat, and your shoulders nude.
You were so full of a subtle fire,
You were so warm and so sweet, Lisette ;
You were everything men admire.
And there were no fetters to make us tire.
For you were — a pretty grisette.
But you loved, as only such natures can,
With a love that makes heaven or hell for
a man.
They have ceased singing that old duet,
Stately Maud and the tenor McKey.
"You are burning your coat with your cigar-
ette.
And qiC avez vous, dearest, your lids are wet,"
Maud says, as she leans o'er me.
And I smile, and lie to her, husband-wise,
" Oh, it is nothing but smoke in my eyes."
26 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
LITTLE QUEEN.
Do you remember the name I wore —
The old pet-name of Little Queen —
In the dear, dead days, that are no more.
The happiest days of our lives, I ween ?
For we loved with that passionate love of
youth
That blesses but once with its perfect bliss —
A love that, in spite of its trust and truth.
Seems never to thrive, in a world like this.
I lived for you, and you lived for me ;
All was centred in *' Little Queen " ;
And never a thought in our hearts had we
That strife or trouble could come between.
What utter sinking of self it was !
How little we cared for the world of men !
For love's fair kingdom, and love's sweet laws,
Were all of the world and life to us then.
But a love like ours was a challenge to fate ;
She rang down the curtain and shifted the
scene ;
Yet sometimes now, when the day grows late,
I can hear you calling for Little Queen ;
For a happy home and a busy life
Can never wholly crowd out our past ;
In the twilight pauses that come from strife,
You will think of me while life shall last.
And however sweet the voice of fame
May sing to me of a great world's praise,
I shall long sometimes for the old pet-name
That you gave to me in the dear, dead days ;
WHEREFORE 27
And nothing the angel band can say,
When I reach the shores of the great
Unseen,
Can please me so much as on that day
To hear your greeting of " Little Queen."
WHEREFORE.
Wherefore in dreams are sorrows borne anew,
A healed wound opened, or the past
revived ?
Last night in my deep sleep I dreamed of
you —
Again the old love woke in me, and thrived
On looks of fire, and kisses, and sweet words
Like silver waters purling in a stream.
Or like the amorous melodies of birds :
A dream — a dream.
Again upon the glory of the scene
There settled that dread shadow of the cross
That, when hearts love too well, falls in
between —
That warns them of impending woe and loss,
Again I saw you drifting from my life,
As barques are rudely parted in a stream ;
Again my heart was torn with awful strife :
A dream — a dream.
Again the deep night settled on me there,
Alone I groi>ed, and heard strange waters
roll.
Lost in that blackness of supreme despair
That comes but once to any living soul.
28 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Alone, afraid, I called your name aloud —
Mine eyes, unveiled, behold white stars
agleam,
And lo! awake, I cried, *< Thank God, thank
God,
A dream — a dream ! "
DELILAH.
In the midnight of darkness and terror,
When I would grope nearer to God,
With my back to a record of error
And the highway of sin I have trod.
There come to me shapes I would banish —
The shapes of the deeds I have done ;
And I pray and I plead till they vanish —
All vanish and leave me, save one.
That one, with a smile like the splendour
Of the sun in the middle-day skies —
That one, with a spell that is tender —
That one with a dream in her eyes —
Cometh close, in her rare southern beauty,
Her languor, her indolent grace ;
And my soul turns its back on its duty.
To live in the light of her face.
She touches my cheek, and I quiver —
I tremble with exquisite pains ;
She sighs — like an overcharged river
My blood rushes on through my veins ;
She smiles — and in mad-tiger fashion.
As a she-tiger fondles her own,
I clasp her with fierceness and passion,
And kiss her with shudder and groan.
CHANGE 29
Once more, in our love's sweet beginning,
I put away God and tlie World ;
Once more, in the joys of our sinning,
Are the hopes of eternity hurled.
There is nothing my soul lacks or misses
As I clasp the dream - shape to my
breast ;
In the passion and pain of her kisses
Life blooms to its richest and best.
O ghost of dead sin unrelenting.
Go back to the dust, and the sod !
Too dear and too sweet for repenting.
Ye stand between me and my God.
If I, by the Throne, should behold you,
Smiling up with those eyes loved so well,.
Close, close in my arms I would fold you,
And drop with you down to sweet Hell 1
CHANGE.
Changed? Yes, I will confess it— I have
changed.
I do not love you in the old fond way.
I am your friend still — time has not estranged
One kindly feeling of that vanished day.
But the bright glamour which made life a
dream.
The rapture of that time, its sweet content^
Like visions of a sleeper's brain they seem —
And yet I cannot tell you how they went.
30 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Why do you gaze with such accusing eyes
Upon me, dear ? Is it so very strange
That hearts, like all things underneath God's
skies,
Should sometimes feel the influence of
change ?
The birds, the flowers, the foliage of the trees,
The stars which seem so fixed, and so
sublime,
Vast continents, and the eternal seas —
All these do change, with ever-changing
time.
The face our mirror shows us year on year
Is not the same ; our dearest aim, or need,
Our lightest thought, or feeling, hope, or fear,
All, all the law of alternation heed.
How can we ask the human heart to stay.
Content with fancies of Youth's earliest
hours ?
The year outgrows the violets of May,
Although, maybe, there are no fairer
flowers.
And life may hold no sweeter love than this.
Which lies so cold, so voiceless, and so
dumb.
And will I miss it, dear? Why, yes, we miss
The violets always — till the roses come !
A WALTZ-QUADRILLE 31
A WALTZ-QUADRILLE.
The band was playing a waltz-quadrille,
I felt as light as a wind-blown feather,
As we floated away, at the caller's will,
Through the intricate, mazy dance together.
Like mimic armies our lines were meeting.
Slowly advancing, and then retreating,
All decked in their bright array ;
And back and forth to the music's rhyme
We moved together, and all the time
I knew you were going away.
The fold of your strong arm sent a thrill
From heart to brain as we gently glided
Like leaves on the wave of that waltz-
quadrille ;
Parted, met, and again divided —
You drifting one way, and I another,
Then suddenly turning and facing each other,
Then off in the blithe chass6.
Then airily back to our places swaying.
While every beat of the music seemed saying
That you were going away.
I said to my heart, '' Let us take our fill
Of mirth, and music, and love and laughter ;
For it all must end with this waltz-quadrille,
And life will never be the same life after.
Oh, that the caller might go on calling.
Oh, that the music might go on falling,
Like a shower of silver spray
While we whirled on to the vast Forever,
Where no hearts break, and no ties sever.
And no one goes away."
32 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
A clamour, a crash, and the band was still,
'Twas the end of the dream, and the end of
the measure ;
The last low notes of that waltz-quadrllle
Seemed like a dirge o'er the death of
Pleasure.
You said good-night, and the spell was over —
Too warm for a friend, and too cold for a
lover —
There was nothing else to say ;
But the lights looked dim, and the dancers
weary,
And the music was sad, and the hall was
dreary,
After you went away.
TIRED.
I AM tired to-night, and something,
The wind maybe, or the rain,
Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside,
Has brought back the past and its pain.
And I feel as I sit here thinking.
That the hand of a dead old June
Has reached out hold of my heart's loose
strings,
And is drawing them up in tune.
I am tired to-night, and I miss you,
And long for you, love, through tears ;
And it seems but to-day that I saw you
go—
You, who have been gone for years.
CONVERSION 33
And I seem to be newly lonely —
I, who am so much alone ;
And the strings of my heart are well in tune,
But they have not the same old tone.
I am tired ; and that old sorrow
Sweeps down the bed of my soul,
As a turbulent river might suddenly break
Away from a dam's control.
It beareth a wreck on its bosom,
A wreck with a snow-white sail,
And the hand on my heart-strings thrums away.
But they only respond with a wail.
CONVERSION.
I HAVE lived this life as the sceptic lives it,
I have said the sweetness was less than the
gall
Praising, nor cursing, the Hand that gives it,
I have drifted aimlessly through it all.
I have scoffed at the tale of a so-called heaven,
I have laughed at the thought of a Supreme
Friend ;
I have said that it only to man was given
To live, to endure ; and to die was the end.
But now I know that a good God reigneth,
Generous-hearted, and kind and true ;
Since unto a worm Hke me He deigneth
To send so royal a gift as you.
Bright as a star you gleam on my bosom,
Sweet as a rose that the wild bee sips ;
And I know, my own, my beautiful blossom,
That none but a God could mould such lips.
c
34 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
And I believe, in the fullest measure,
That ever a strong man's heart could hold,
In all the tales of heavenly pleasure
By poets sungf, or by prophets told ;
For in the joy of your shy, sweet kisses.
Your pulsing touch and your languid sigh,
I am filled and thrilled with better blisses
Than ever were claimed for souls on high.
And now I have faith in all the stories
Told of the beauties of unseen lands ;
Of royal splendours and marvellous glories
Of the golden city not made with hands
For the silken beauty of falling tresses,
Of lips all dewy and cheeks aglow.
With — what the mind in a half trance guesses
Of the twin perfection of drifts of snow.
Of limbs, like marble, of thigh and shoulder,
Carved like a statue in high relief —
These, as the eyes and the thoughts grow
bolder.
Leave no room for an unbelief.
So my lady, my queen most royal.
My scepticism has passed away ;
If you are true to me, true and loyal,
I will believe till the Judgment-day.
OLD AND NEW.
Long have the poets vaunted, in their lays,
Old times, old loves, old friendship, and
old wine.
Why should the old monopolise all praise?
Then let the new claim mine.
AD FINEM 35
Give me strong new friends, when the old
prove weak,
Or fail me in my darkest hour of need ;
Why perish with the ship that springs a leak,
Or lean upon a reed ?
Give me new love, warm, palpitating, sweet.
When all the grace and beauty leaves the old',
When like a rose it withers at my feet,
Or like a hearth grows cold.
Give me new times, bright with a prosperous
cheer.
In place of old, tear-blotted, burdened days ;
I hold a sunlit present far more dear,
And worthy of my praise.
When the old creeds are threadbare, and
worn through,
And all too narrow for the broadening soul,
Give me the fine, firm texture of the new,
Fair, beautiful and whole !
AD FINEM.
On the white throat of the useless passion
That scorched my soul with its burning
breath,
I clutched my fingers in murderous fashion.
And gathered them close in a grip of death ;
For why should I fan, or feed with fuel,
A love that showed me but blank despair?
So my hold was firm, and my grasp was
cruel —
I meant to strangle it then and there !
36 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
I thought it was dead. But with no warning",
It rose from its grave last night, and came
And stood by my bed till the early morning,
And over and over it spoke your name.
Its throat was red where my hands had held it,
It burned my brow with its scorching breath ;
And I said, the moment my eyes beheld it,
'' A love like this can know no death."
For just one kiss that your lips have given
In the lost and beautiful past to me,
I would gladly barter my hopes of Heaven
And all the bliss of Eternity.
For never a joy are the angels keeping
To lay at my feet in Paradise,
Like that of into your strong arms creeping,
And looking into your love-lit eyes.
I know, in the way that sins are reckoned,
This thought is a sin of the deepest dye ;
But I know, too, if an angel beckoned,
Standing close by the Throne on High,
And you adown by the gates infernal,
Should open your loving arms and smile,
I would turn my back on things supernal,
To lie on your breast a little while.
To know for an hour you were mine com-
pletely—
Mine in body and soul, my own —
I would bear unending tortures sweetly,
With not a murmur and not a moan.
A lighter sin or a lesser error
Might change through hope or fear divine ;
But there is no fear, and hell has no terror
To change or alter a love like mine.
YOU WILL FORGET ME
YOU WILL FORGET ME.
You will forget me. The years are so tender,
They bind up the wounds which we think
are so deep ;
This dream of our youth will fade out as the
splendour
Fades from the skies when the sun sinks
to sleep ;
The cloud of forgetfulness, over and over
Will banish the last rosy colours, away,
And the fingers of time will weave garlands
to cover
The scar which you think is a life-mark
to-day.
You will forget me. The one boon you
covet
Now above all things will soon seem no
prize,
And the heart, which you hold not in keeping
to prove it
True or untrue, will lose worth In your eyes.
The one drop to-day, that you deem only
wanting
To fill your life-cup to the brim, soon will
seem
But a valueless mite ; and the ghost that is
haunting
The aisles of your heart will pass out with
the dream.
You will forget me ; will thank me for saying
The words which you think are so pointed
with pain.
38 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Time loves a new lay ; and the dirge he is
playing
Will change for you soon to a livelier strain.
I shall pass from your life — I shall pass out
forever,
And these hours we have spent will be sunk
in the past.
Youth buries its dead ; grief kills seldom or
never —
And forgetfulness covers all sorrows at last.
PROGRESS.
Let there be many windows to your soul,
That all the glory of the universe
May beautify it. Not the narrow pane
Of one poor creed can catch the radiant rays
That shine from countless sources. Tear away
The blinds of superstition ; let the light
Pour through fair windows broad as Truth
itself
And high as God.
Why should the spirit peer
Through some priest-curtained orifice, and
grope
Along dim corridors of doubt, when all
The splendour from unfathomed seas of space
Might bathe it with the golden waves of
Love?
Sweep up the debris of decaying faiths ;
Sweep down the cobwebs of worn-out beliefs,
And throw your soul wide open to the light
Of Reason and of Knowledge. Tune your ear
SHOW ME THE WAY 39
To all the wordless music of the stars
And to the voice of Nature, and your heart
Shall turn to truth and goodness, as the
plant
Turns to the sun. A thousand unseen hands
Reach down to help you to their peace-
crowned heights.
And all the forces of the firmament
Shall fortify your strength. Be not afraid
To thrust aside half-truths and grasp the
whole.
SHOW ME THE WAY.
Show me the way that leads to the true life.
I do not care what tempests may assail
me,
I shall be given courage for the strife,
I know my strength will not desert or fail
me ;
I know that I shall conquer in the fray :
Show me the way.
Show me the way up to a higher plane.
Where body shall be servant to the soul.
I do not care what tides of woe, or pain,
Across my life their angry waves may roll
If I but reach the end I seek some day :
Show me the way.
Show me the way, and let me bravely climb
Above vain grievings for unworthy trea-
sures ;
40 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Above ail sorrow that finds balm in time —
Above small triumphs, or belittling pleasures;
Up to those heights where these things seem
child's play :
Show me the way.
Show me the way to that calm, perfect peace
Which springs from an inward conscious-
ness of right ;
To where all conflicts with the flesh shall
cease,
And self shall radiate with the spirit's light.
Though hard the journey and the strife, I pray
Show me the way.
SOLITUDE.
Laugh, and the world laughs with you ;
Weep, and you weep alone,
For sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer ;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you ;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many ;
Be sad, and you lose them all —
There are none to decline your nectar'd wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.
THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF NOD 41
Feast, and j-our halls are crowded ;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF NOD.
Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear.
Your head like the golden-rod.
And we will go sailing away from here
To the beautiful Land of Nod.
Away from life's hurry, and flurry, and worry.
Away from earth's shadows and gloom,
To a world of fair weather we'll float off" together
Where roses are always in bloom.
Just shut up your eyes, and fold your hands,
Your hands like the leaves of a rose,
And we will go sailing to those fair lands
That never an atlas shows.
On the North and the West they are bounded
by rest.
On the South and the East, by dreams ;
'Tis the country ideal, where nothing is real.
But everything only seems.
Just drop down the curtains of your dear eyes,
Those eyes like a bright blue-bell.
And we will sail out under starlit skies,
To the land where the fairies dwell.
42 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Down the river of sleep, our barque shall
sweep,
Till it reaches that mystical Isle
Which no man hath seen, but where all have
been,
And there we will pause awhile.
I will croon you a song as we float along,
To that shore that is blessed of God,
>Then ho! for that fair land, we're off for that
rare land.
That beautiful Land of Nod.
I WILL BE WORTHY OF IT.
1 MAY not reach the heights I seek,
My untried strength may fail me ;
Or, half-way up the mountain peak
Fierce tempests may assail me.
But though that place I never gain,
Herein lies comfort for my pain —
1 will be worthy of it.
I may not triumph in success.
Despite my earnest labour ;
I may not grasp results that bless
The efforts of my neighbour.
But though my goal I never see
This thought shall always dwell with me-
I will be worthy of it.
The golden glory of Love's light
May never fall on my way ;
My path may always lead through night,
Like some deserted byway.
EARNESTNESS 43
But though life's dearest joy I miss
There lies a nameless strength in this —
I will be worthy of it.
EARNESTNESS.
The hurry of the times affects us so
In this swift rushing hour, we crowd, and
press,
And thrust each other backward, as we go,
And do not pause to lay sufficient stress
Upon that good, strong, true word, Earnest-
ness.
In our impetuous haste, could we but know
Its full, deep meaning, its vast import, oh.
Then might we grasp the secret of success !
In that receding age when men were great,
The bone, and sinew, of their purpose lay
In this one word. God likes an earnest
soul —
Too earnest to be eager. Soon or late
It leaves the spent horde breathless by the
way,
And stands serene triumphant, at the goal.
Qpoent0 of QpfedBure
SURRENDER.
Love, when we met, 'twas like two planets
meeting-,
Strange chaos followed ; body, soul, and
heart
Seemed shaken, thrilled, and startled by that
greeting-.
Old ties, old dreams, old aims, all torn
apart
And wrenched away, left nothing there the
while
But the great shining glory of your smile.
I knew no past ; 'twas all a blurred, bleak
waste ;
I asked no future ; 'twas a blinding glare.
I only saw the present : as men taste
Some stimulating wine, and lose all care,
I tasted Love's elixir and I seemed
Dwelling in some strange land, like one who
dreamed.
It was a godlike separate existence ;
Our world was set apart in some fair clime.
45
46 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
I had no will, no purpose, no resistance ;
I only knew I loved you for all time.
The earth seemed something foreign and afar,
And we two, sovereigns dwelling in a star !
It is so sad, so strange, I almost doubt
That all those years could be before we met.
Do you not wish that we could blot them out ?
Obliterate them wholly, and forget
That we had any part in life until
We clasped each other with Love's rapture
thrill?
My being trembled to its very centre
At that first kiss. Cold Reason stood aside
With folded arms to let a grand Love enter
In my Soul's secret chamber to abide.
Its great High Priest, my first Love and my
last,
There on its altar I consumed my past.
And all my life I lay upon its shrine
The best emotions of my heart and brain,
Whatever gifts and graces may be mine ;
No secret thought, no memory I retain.
But give them all for dear Love's precious
sake ;
Complete surrender of the whole I make.
THE WAY OF IT.
This is the way of it, wide world over,
One is beloved, and one is the lover,
One gives and the other receives.
ANGEL OR DEMON 47
One lavishes all in a wild emotion,
One offers a smile for a life's devotion.
One hopes and the other believes.
One lies awake in the night to weep
And the other drifts off in a sweet sound
sleep.
One soul is aflame with a godlike passion,
One plays with love in an idler's fashion,
One speaks and the other hears.
One sobs '* I love you," and wet eyes show it,
And one laughs lightly, and says '* I know it,"
With smiles for the other's tears.
One lives for the other and nothing beside,
And the other remembers the world is wide.
This is the way of it, sad earth over,
The heart that breaks is the heart of the lover.
And the other learns to forget.
*' For what is the use of endless sorrow?
Though the sun goes down, it will rise to-
morrow ;
And life is not over yet."
Oh ! I know this truth, if I know no other.
That passionate Love is Pain's own mother.
ANGEL OR DEMON.
You call me an angel of love and of light,
A being of goodness and heavenly fire.
Sent out from God's kingdom to guide you
aright,
In paths where your spirit may mount and
aspire.
48 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
You say that I glow like a star on its course,
Like a ray from the altar, a spark from the
source.
Now list to my answer ; let all the world hear
it,
I speak unafraid what I know to be true : —
A pure, faithful love is the creative spirit
Which makes women angels ! I live but in
you.
We are bound soul to soul by life's holiest
laws ;
If I am an Angel — why you are the cause.
As my ship skims the sea, I look up from the
deck,
Fair, firm at the wheel shines Love's
beautiful form,
And shall I curse the barque that last night
went to wreck,
By the Pilot abandoned to darkness and
storm ?
My craft is no stauncher, she too had been
lost —
Had the wheelman deserted, or slept at his
post.
I laid down the wealth of my soul at your feet
(Some woman does this for some man every
day).
No desperate creature who walks in the street
Has a wickeder heart than I might have, I
say.
Had you wantonly misused the treasures you
won,
As so many men with heart riches have done.
ANGEL OR DEMON 49
This fire from God's altar, this holy love-flame
That 'burns like sweet incense for ever for
you,
Might now be a wild conflagration of shame,
Had you tortured my heart, or been base or
untrue.
For angels and devils are cast in one mould,
Till love guides them upward, or downward, I
hold.
I tell you the women who make fervent wives
And sweet tender mothers, had Fate been
less fair,
Are the women who might have abandoned
their lives
To the madness that springs from and ends
in despair.
As the fire on the hearth which sheds bright-
ness around,
Neglected, may level the walls to the ground.
The world makes grave errors in judging
these things,
Great good and great evil are born in one
breast.
Love horns us and hoofs us — or gives us our
wings.
And the best could be worst, as the worst
could be best.
You must thank your own worth for what I
grew to be,
For the demon lurked under the angel in me.
D
50 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
BLASE.
The world has outlived all its passion,
Its men are inane and blas^,
Its women mere puppets of fashion ;
Life now is a comedy play.
Our Abelard sighs for a season,
Then yields with decorum to fate,
Our H^loise listens to reason,
And seeks a new mate.
Our Romeo's flippant emotion
Grows pale as the summer grows old ;
Our Juliet prov^es her devotion
By clasping — a cup filled with gold.
Vain Anthony boasts of his favours
P'rom fair Cleopatra the frail,
And the death of the sorceress savours
Less of asps than of ale.
With the march of bold civilisation.
Great loves and great faiths are down-
trod.
They belonged to an era and nation
All fresh with the imprint of God.
High culture emasculates feeling,
The over-taught brain robs the heart,
And the shrine now where mortals are kneel-
ing
Is a commonplace mart.
Our eflfeminate fathers and brothers
Keep carefully out of life's storm.
From the ladylike minds of our mothers
We are taught that to feel is " bad form,**
THREE AND ONE 51
Our worshippers now and our lovers
Are calmly devout with their brains,
And we laugh at the man who discovers
Warm blood in his veins.
But you, O twin souls, passion-mated,
Who love as the gods loved of old.
What blundering destiny fated
Your lives to be cast in this mould?
Like a lurid volcanic upheaval.
In pastures prosaic and grey.
You seem with your fervours primeval,
Among us to-day.
You dropped from some planet of splendour,
Perhaps as it circled afar.
And your constancy, swerveless and tender,
You learned from the course of that star.
Fly back to its bosom, I warn you —
As back to the ark flew the dove—
The minions of earth will but scorn you.
Because you can love.
THREE AND ONE.
Sometimes she seems so helpless and so mild.
So full of sweet unreason and so weak.
So prone to some capricious whim or freak ;
Now gay, now tearful, and now anger-wild.
By her strange moods of waywardness beguiled
And entertained, I stroke her pretty cheek.
And soothing words of peace and comfort
speak ;
And love her as a father loves a child.
52 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Sometimes when I am troubled and sore
pressed
On every side by fast-advancing- care,
She rises up with such majestic air,
I deem her some Olympian Goddess-guest,
Who brings my heart new courage, hope, and
rest ;
In her brave eyes dwells balm for my
despair,
And then I seem, while fondly gazing there,
A loving child upon my Mother's breast.
Again, when her warm veins are full of life.
And youth's volcanic tidal wave of fire
Sends the swift mercury of her pulses higher.
Her beauty stirs my heart to maddening strife,
And all the tiger in my blood is rife ;
I love her with a lover's fierce desire.
And find in her my dream, complete, entire.
Child, Mother, Mistress — all in one word —
Wife.
iNBORiV.
As long as men have eyes wherewith to gaze,
As long as men have eyes.
The sight of beauty to their sense shall be
As mighty winds are to a sleeping sea
When stormy billows rise.
And beauty's smile shall stir youth's ardent
blood
As rays of sunlight burst the swelling bud ;
As long as men have eyes wherewith
to gaze.
TWO PRAYERS 53
As long as men have words wherewith to praise,
As long" as men have words,
They shall describe the softly-moulded breast,
Where Love and Pleasure make their downy
nest.
Like little singing birds ;
And lovely limbs, and lips of luscious fire,
Shall be the theme of many a poet's lyre,
As long as men have words wherewith
to praise.
As long as men have hearts that long for
homes.
As long as men have hearts,
Hid often like the acorn in the earth,
Their inborn love of noble woman's worth,
Beyond all beauty's arts.
Shall stem the sensuous current of desire.
And urge the world's best thought to some-
thing higher.
As long as men have hearts that long
for homes.
TWO PRAYERS.
HIS.
Dear, when you lift your gentle heart in prayer,
Ask God to send his angel Death to me
Long ere he comes to you, if that may be.
I would dwell with you in that new life there.
But having, manlike, sinned, I must prepare,
By sad probation, ere I hope to see
Those upper realms which are at once
thrown free
54 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
To sweet, white souls like yours, unstained
and fair.
Time is so brief on earth, I well might spare
A few short years, if so I could atone
For my marred past, ere you are called
above.
My soul would glory in its own despair.
Till purified I met you at God's throne,
And entered on Eternities of Love.
HERS.
Nay, Love, not so I frame my prayer to God ;
I want you close beside me to the end ;
If it could be, I would have Him send
A simultaneous death, and let one sod
Cover our two hushed hearts. If you have trod
Paths strange to me on earth, oh, let me
wend
My way with yours hereafter ; let me blend
My tears with yours beneath the chastening rod.
If you must pay the penalty for sin.
In vales of darkness, ere you pass on higher,
I will petition God to let me go.
I would not wait on earth, nor enter in
To any joys before you. I desire
No glory greater than to share your woe.
LOVE MUCH.
Love much. Earth has enough of bitter in it
Cast sweets into its cup whene'er you can.
No heart so hard, but love at last may win it ;
Love is the grand primeval cause of man ;
All hate is foreign to the first great plan.
LOVE MUCH 55
Love much. Your heart will be led out to
slaug^hter,
On altars built of envy and deceit.
Love on, love on ! 'tis bread upon the water ;
It shall be cast in loaves yet at your feet,
Unleavened manna, most divinely sweet.
Love much. Your faith will be dethroned and
shaken.
Your trust betrayed by many a fair, false
lure.
Remount your faith, and let new trusts awaken.
Though clouds obscure them, yet the stars
are pure ;
Love is a vital force and must endure.
Love much. Men's souls contract with cold
suspicion.
Shine on them with warm love, and they
expand.
'Tis love, not creeds, that from a low condi-
tion
Leads mankind up to heights supreme and
grand.
Oh, that the world could see and under-
stand !
Love much. There is no waste in freely
giving;
More blessed is it, even, than to receive.
He who loves much, alone finds life worth
living ;
Love on, through doubt and darkness ; and
believe
There is no thing which Love may not
achieve.
56 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
ONE OF US TWO.
The day will dawn, when one of us shall
hearken
In vain to hear a voice that has grown dumb.
And morns will fade, noons pale, and shadows
darken.
While sad eyes watch for feet that never come.
One of us two must sometime face existence
Alone with memories that but sharpen pain.
And these sweet days shall shine back in the
distance,
Like dreams of summer dawns, in nights of
rain.
One of us two, with tortured heart half broken.
Shall read long-treasured letters through
salt tears,
Shall kiss with anguished lips each cherished
token.
That speaks of these love-crowned, delicious
years.
One of us two shall find all light, all beauty.
All joy on earth, a tale for ever done ;
Shall know henceforth that life means only duty.
Oh, God ! Oh, God ! have pity on that one.
TWO SINNERS
There was a man, it was said one time,
Who went astray in his youthful prime.
TWO SINNERS 57
Can the brain keep cool and the heart keep
quiet
When the blood is a river that's running riot ?
And boys will be boys the old folks say,
And a man is the better who's had his day.
The sinner reformed ; and the preacher told
Of the prodigal son who came back to the fold.
And Christian people threw open the door,
With a warmer welcome than ever before.
Wealth and honour were his to command,
And a spotless woman gave him her hand.
And the world strewed their pathway with
blossoms abloom,
Crying "God bless ladye, and God bless
groom ! "
There was a maiden who went astray
In the golden dawn of her life's young day.
She had more passion and heart than head,
And she followed blindly where fond Love led.
And Love unchecked is a dangerous guide
To wander at will by a fair girl's side.
The woman repented and turned from sin,
But no door opened to let her in.
The preacher prayed that she might be for-
given.
But told her to look for mercy — in heaven.
For this is the law of the earth, we know :
That the woman is stoned, while the man may
A brave man wedded her after all,
But the world said, frowning, "We shall not
call."
::8 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
WHAT LOVE IS.
Love is the centre and circumference ;
The cause and aim of all things — 'tis the key
To joy and sorrow, and the recompense
For all the ills that have been, or may be.
Love is as bitter as the dregs of sin,
As sweet as clover-honey in its cell ;
Love is the password whereby souls get in
To Heaven — the gate that leads, sometimes,
to Hell.
Love is the crown that glorifies ; the curse
That brands and burdens ; it is life and
death.
It is the great law of the universe ;
And nothing can exist without its breath.
Love is the impulse which directs the world,
And all things know it and obey its power.
Man, in the maelstrom of his passion whirled ;
The bee that takes the pollen to the flower ;
The earth, uplifting her bare, pulsing breast
To fervent kisses of the amorous sun ; —
Each but obeys creative Love's behest.
Which everywhere instinctively is done.
Love is the only thing that pays for birth.
Or makes death welcome. Oh, dear God
above
This beautiful but sad, perplexing earth,
Pity the hearts that know — or know not —
Love !
CONSTANCY 59
CONSTANCY.
I WILL be true. Mad stars forsake their
courses,
And, led by reckless meteors, turn away
From paths appointed by Eternal Forces ;
But my fixed heart shall never go astray.
Like those calm worlds whose sun-directed
motion
Is undisturbed by strife of wind or sea.
So shall my swerveless and serene devotion
Sweep on for ever, loyal unto thee.
I will be true. The fickle tide, divided
Between two wooing shores, in wild unrest
May to and fro shift always undecided ;
Not so the tide of Passion in my breast.
With the grand surge of some resistless river.
That hurries on, past mountain, vale, and
sea.
Unto the main, its water to deliver.
So my full heart keeps all its wealth for thee.
I will be true. Light barques may be belated,
Or turned aside by every breeze at play.
While sturdy ships, well-manned and richly
freighted.
With fair sails flying, anchor safe in bay.
Like some firm rock, that, steadfast and un-
shaken,
Stands all unmoved when ebbing billows flee,
So would my heart stand, faithful if forsaken —
I will be true, though thou art false to me.
6o POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
RESOLVE.
As the dead year is clasped by a dead
December,
So let your dead sins with your dead days lie.
A new life is yours, and a new hope. Re-
member,
We build our own ladders to climb to the
sky.
Stand out in the sunlight of Promise, for-
getting
Whatever the Past held of sorrow or wrong.
We waste half our strength in a useless re-
gretting ;
We sit by old tombs in the dark too long.
Have you missed in your aim? Well, the
mark is still shining.
, Did you faint in the race? Well, take
breath for the next.
Did the clouds drive you back ? But see
yonder their lining.
Were you tempted and fell ? Let it serve for
a text.
As each year hurries by let it join that pro-
cession
Of skeleton shapes that march down to the
■ Past,
While you take your place in the line of Pro-
gression,
With your eyes on the heavens, your face to
the blast.
I tell you the future can hold no terrors
For any sad soul while the stars revolve,
ANSWERED PRAYERS 6r
If he will stand firm on the grave of his errors,
And instead of regretting, resolve, resolve.
It is never too late to begin rebuilding.
Though all into ruins your life seems hurled,
For see how the light of the New Year is
gilding
The wan, worn face of the bruised old world.
OPTIMISM.
I'm no reformer ; for I see more light
Than darkness in the world ; mine eyes are quick
To catch the first dim radiance of the dawn.
And slow to note the cloud that threatens
storm.
The fragrance and the beauty of the rose
Delight me so, slight thought I give its thorn ;
And the sweet music of the lark's clear song
Stays longer with me than the night hawk's cry.
And e'en in this great throe of pain called Life,
I find a rapture linked with each despair,
Well worth the price of Anguish. I detect
More good than evil in humanity.
Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes,
And men grow better as the world grows old.
ANSWERED PRAYERS.
I PRAYED for riches, and achieved success :
All that I touched turned into gold. Alas !
My cares were greater and my peace was less,
When that wish came to pass.
62 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
I prayed for glory, and I heard my name
Sung by sweet children and by hoary men.
But ah! the hurts — the hurts that come with
fame !
I was not happy then.
I prayed for Love, and had my heart's desire.
Through quivering heart and body, and
through brain
There swept the flame of its devouring fire.
And but the scars remain.
I prayed for a contented mind. At length
Great light upon my darkened spirit burst.
Great peace fell on me also, and great
strength —
Oh, had that prayer been first !
THE LADY OF TEARS.
Through valley and hamlet and city,
Wherever humanity dwells,
With a heart full of infinite pity,
A breast that with sympathy swells,
She walks in her beauty immortal.
Each household grows sad as she nears,
But she crosses at length every portal.
The mystical Lady of Tears.
If never this vision of sorrow
Has shadowed your life in the past.
You will meet her, I know, some to-morrow
She visits all hearthstones at last.
THE LADY OF TEARS 6j
To hovel, and cottage, and palace,
To servant and king* she appears,
And offers the gall of her chalice —
The unwelcome Lady of Tears.
To the eyes that have smiled but in gladness,
To the souls that have basked in the sun.
She seems in her garments of sadness,
A creature to dread and to shun.
And lips that have drunk but of pleasure
Grow pallid and tremble with fears,
As she portions the gall from her measure,
The merciless Lady of Tears.
But in midnight, lone hearts that are quaking^
With the agonized numbness of grief,
Are saved from the torture of breaking,
By her bitter-sweet draught of relief.
Oh, then do all graces enfold her ;
Like the goddess she looks and appears.
And the eyes overflow that behold her —
The beautiful Lady of Tears.
Though she turns to lamenting all laughter^
Though she gives us despair for delight,
Life holds a new meaning thereafter,
For those who will greet her aright.
They stretch out their hands to each other^
For Sorrow unites and endears,
The children of one tender mother —
The sweet, blessed Lady of Tears.
64 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
SECRET THOUGHTS.
I HOLD it true that thoughts are things
Endowed with bodies, breath, and wings,
And that we send them forth to fill
The world with good results — or ill.
That which we call our secret thought
Speeds to the earth's remotest spot.
And leaves its blessings or its woes
Like tracks behind it as it goes.
It is God's law. Remember it
In your still chamber as you sit
With thoughts you would not dare have known,
And yet make comrades when alone.
These thoughts have life ; and they will fly
And leave their impress by-and-by,
Like some marsh breeze, whose poisoned
breath
Breathes into homes its fevered breath.
And after you have quite forgot
Or all outgrown some vanished thought,
Back to your mind to make its home,
A dove or raven, it will come.
Then let your secret thoughts be fair ;
They have a vital part and share
In shaping worlds and moulding fate —
God's system is so intricate.
THERE COMES A TIME 65
THERE COMES A TIME.
Theke comes a time to every mortal being",
Whate'er his station or his lot in life,
When his sad soul yearns for the final freeing"
From all this jarring and unceasing strife.
There comes a time, when, having lost Its
savour,
The salt of wealth is worthless ; when the
mind
Grows wearied with the world's capricious
favour,
And sighs for something that it cannot find.
There comes a time, when, though kind friends
are thronging
About our pathway with sweet acts of grace,
We feel a vast and overwhelming longing
For something that we cannot name or
place.
There comes a time, when, with earth's best
love by us.
To feed the heart's great hunger and desire.
We find not even this can satisfy us ;
The soul within us cries for something
higher.
What greater proof need we that we Inherit
A life immortal in another sphere ?
It is the homesick longing of the spirit
That cannot find Its satisfaction here.
66 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
NECESSITY.
Necessity, whom long I deemed my foe,
Thou cold, unsmiling, and hard-visaged
dame,
Now I no longer see thy face, I know
Thou wert my friend beyond reproach or
blame.
My best achievements and the fairest flights
Of my winged fancy were inspired by thee ;
Thy stern voice stirred me to the mountain
heights ;
Thy importunings bade me do and be.
But for thy breath, the spark of living fire
Within me might have smouldered out at
length ;
But for thy lash which would not let me tire,
I never would have measured my own
strength.
But for thine ofttimes merciless control
Upon my life, that nerved me past despair,
I never- should have dug deep in my soul
And found the mine of treasures hidden
there.
And though we walk divided pathways now.
And I no more may see thee, to the end,
I weave this little chaplet for thy brow,
That other hearts may know, and hail thee
friend.
BELIEF 67
ACHIEVEMENTS.
Trust in thine own untried capacity
As thou wouldst trust in God Himself. Thy
soul
Is but an emanation from the whole.
Thou dost not dream what forces lie in thee,
Vast and unfathomed as the grandest sea.
Thy silent mind o'er diamond caves may roll,
Go seek them — but let pilot will control
Those passions which thy favouring winds can
be.
No man shall place a limit in thy strength ;
Such triumphs as no mortal ever gained
May yet be thine if thou wilt but believe
In thy Creator and thyself. At length
Some feet will tread all heights now un-
attained —
Why not thine own ? Press on ; achieve !
achieve !
BELIEF.
The pain we have to suffer seems so broad,
Set side-by-side with this life's narrow span,
We need no greater evidence that God
Has some diviner destiny for man.
He would not deem it worth His while to send
Such crushing sorrows as pursue us here.
Unless beyond this fleeting journey's end
Our chastened spirits found another sphere.
68 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
So small this world ! So vast its agonies !
A future life is needed to adjust
These ill-proportioned, wide discrepancies
Between the spirit and its frame of dust.
So when my soul writhes with some aching grief,
And all my heart-strings tremble at the strain,
My Reason lends new courage to Belief,
And all God's hidden purposes seem plain.
WHATEVER IS— IS BEST.
I KNOW as my life grows older
And mine eyes have clearer sight —
That under each rank wrong, somewhere
There lies the root of Right ;
That each sorrow has its purpose,
By the sorrowing oft unguessed.
But as sure as the sun brings morning,
Whatever is — is best.
I know that each sinful action,
As sure as the night brings shade,
Is somewhere, some time punished,
Tho' the hour be long delayed.
I know that the soul is aided
Sometimes by the heart's unrest,
And to grow means often to suffer —
But whatever is — is best.
I know there are no errors.
In the great Eternal plan.
And all things work together
For the final good of man.
DESIRE 69
And I know when my soul speeds onward
In its grand Eternal quest,
I shall say as I look back earthward,
Whatever is — is best.
PEACE OF THE GOAL.
From the soul of a man who was homeless
Came the deathless song of home.
And the praises of rest are chanted best
By those who are forced to roam.
In a time of fast and hunger.
We can talk over feasts divine ;
But the banquet done, why, where is the one
Who can tell you the taste of the wine ?
We think of the mountain's grandeur
As we walk in the heat afar —
But when we sit in the shadows of it
We think how at rest we are.
With the voice of the craving passions
We can picture a love to come.
But the heart once filled, lo, the voice is stilled^
And we stand in the silence— dumb.
DESIRE.
No joy for which thy hungering heart has
panted,
No hope it cherishes through waiting years^
70 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
But if thou dost deserve it, shall be granted —
For with each passionate wish the blessing
nears.
Tune up the fine, strong instrument of thy
being
To chord with thy dear hope, and do not
tire.
When both in key and rhythm are agreeing,
Lo ! thou shalt kiss the lips of thy desire.
The thing thou cravest so waits in the distance,
Wrapt in the silences, unseen and dumb :
Essential to thy soul and thy existence —
Live worthy of it — call, and it shall come.
DEATHLESS.
There lies in the centre of each man's heart,
A longing and love for the good and pure ;
And if but an atom, or larger part,
I tell you this shall endure — endure —
After the body has gone to decay —
Yea, after the world has passed away.
The longer I live and the more I see
Of the struggle of souls toward the heights
above,
The stronger this truth comes home to me :
That the Universe rests on the shoulders of
love ;
A love so limitless, deep, and broad.
That men have renamed it and called it — God.
THE FAULT OF THE AGE 71
And nothing that ever was born or evolved,
Nothing created by light or force,
But deep in its system there lies dissolved
A shining drop from the Great Love Source ;
A shining drop that shall live for aye —
Though kingdoms may perish and stars decay.
THE FAULT OF THE AGE.
The fault of the age is a mad endeavour
To leap to heights that were made to climb :
By a burst of strength, of a thought most
clever.
We plan to forestall and outwit Time.
We scorn to wait for the thing worth having ;
We want high noon at the day's dim dawn ;
We find no pleasure in toiling and saving.
As our forefathers did in the old times gone.
We force our roses, before their season.
To bloom and blossom for us to wear ;
And then we wonder and ask the reason
Why perfect buds are so few and rare.
We crave the gain, but despise the getting ;
We want wealth — not as reward, but dower ;
And the strength that is wasted in useless
fretting
Would fell a forest or build a tower.
To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the
winning ;
To thirst for glory, yet fear to fight ;
72 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Why, what can it lead to at last, but sinning,
To mental languor and moral blight ?
Better the old slow way of striving,
And counting small gains when the year is
done,
Than to use our force and our strength in
contriving.
And to grasp for pleasure we have not won.
ARTIST AND MAN.
Make thy life better than thy work. Too oft
Our artists spend their skill in rounding soft.
Fair curves upon their statues, while the rough
And ragged edges of the unhewn stuff
In their own natures startle and offend
The eye of critic and the heart of friend.
If in thy too brief day thou must neglect
Thy labour or thy life, let men detect
Flaws in thy work ! while their most searching
gaze
Can fall on nothing which they may not praise
In thy well-chiselled character. The Man
Should not be shadowed by the Artisan !
BABYLAND.
Have you heard of the Valley of Babyland,
The realm where the dear little darlings stay,
Till the kind storks go, as all men know,
And oh, so tenderly bring them away ?
BABYLAND 73
The paths are winding and past all finding,
By all save the storks who understand
The gates and the highways and the intricate
byways
That lead to Babyland.
All over the Valley of Babyland
Sweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss ;
And under the ferns fair, and under the plants
there.
Lie little heads like spools of floss.
With a soothing number the river of slumber
Flows o'er a bedway of silver sand ;
And angels are keeping watch o'er the sleeping
Babes of Babyland.
The path to the Valley of Babyland
Only the kingly, kind storks know ;
If they fly over mountains, or wade through
fountains,
No man sees them come or go.
But an angel maybe, who guards some baby,
Or a fairy perhaps, with her magic wand.
Brings them straightway to the wonderful
gateway
That leads to Babyland.
And there in the Valley of Babyland,
Under the mosses and leaves and ferns.
Like an unfledged starling they find the dar-
ling:*
For whom the heart of a mother yearns ;
And they lift him lightly, and snug him tightly
In feathers soft as a lady's hand ;
And off with a rockaway step they walk away
Out of Babyland»
74 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
As they go from the Valley of Babyland,
Forth into the world of great unrest,
Sometimes in weeping he wakes from sleeping
Before he reaches his mother's breast.
Ah ! how she blesses him, how she caresses
him,
Bonniest bird in the bright home band
That o'er land and water, the kind stork
brought her
From far-off Babyland !
A FACE.
Between the curtains of snowy lace,
Over the way is a baby's face ;
It peeps forth, smiling in merry glee.
And waves its pink little hand at me.
My heart responds with a lonely cry —
But in the wonderful Bye-and-Bye —
Out from the window of God's *'To Be,"
That other baby shall beckon to me.
That ever haunting and longed-for face,
That perfect vision of infant grace.
Shall shine on me in a splendour of light,
Never to fade from my eager sight.
All that was taken shall be made good ;
All that puzzles me understood ;
And the wee white hand that I lost, one day,
Shall lead me into the Better Way.
ENTRE-ACTE REVERIES 75
ENTRE-ACTE REVERIES.
Between the acts while the orchestra played
That sweet old waltz with the lilting"
measure,
I drifted away to a dear dead day,
When the dance, for me, was the sum of all
pleasure ;
When my veins were rife with the fever of life,
When hope ran high as an inswept ocean,
And my heart's great gladness was almost
madness,
As I floated off to the music's motion.
How little I cared for the world outside !
How little I cared for the dull day after !
The thought of trouble went up like a bubble,
And burst in a sparkle of mirthful laughter,
Oh ! and the beat of it, oh ! and the sweet of
it —
Melody, motion, and young blood melted ;
The dancers swaying, the players playing.
The air song-deluged and music-pelted.
I knew no weariness, no, not I —
My step was as light as the waving grasses
That flutter with ease on the strong-armed
breeze.
As it waltzes over the wild morasses.
Life was all sound and swing ; youth was a
perfect thing ;
Night was the goddess of satisfaction.
Oh, how I tripped away, right to the edge of
day !
Joy lay in motion, and rest lay in action.
76 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
I dance no more on the music's wave,
I yield no more to its wildering power,
That time has flown Hke a rose that is blown,
Yet life is a garden forever in flower.
Though storms of tears have watered the years,
Between to-day and the day departed.
Though trials have met me, and grief's waves
wet me.
And I have been tired and trouble-hearted.
Though under the sod of a wee green grave,
A great, sweet hope in darkness perished.
Yet life, to my thinking, is a cup worth
drinking,
A gift to be glad of, and loved, and cherished.
There is deeper pleasure in the slower measure
That Time's grand orchestra now is playing.
Its mellowed minor is sadder but finer.
And life grows daily more worth the living.
A PLEA.
Columbia, large-hearted and tender,
Too long for the good of your kin
You have shared your home's comfort and
splendour
With all who have asked to come in.
The smile of your true eyes has lighted
The way to your wide-open door.
You have held out full hands, and invited
The beggar to take from your store.
Your overrun proud sister nations.
Whose off'spring you help them to keep,
A PLEA 77
Aresending their poorest relations,
Their unruly vicious black sheep ;
Unwashed and unlettered you take them,
And lo ! we are pushed from your knee ;
We are governed by laws as they make them,
We are slaves in the land of the free.
Columbia, you know the devotion
Of those who have sprung from your soil ;
Shall aliens, born over the ocean,
Dispute us the fruits of our toil ?
Most noble and gracious of mothers.
Your children rise up and demand
That you bring us no more foster-brothers.
To breed discontent in the land.
Be prudent before you are zealous.
Not generous only — but just.
Our hearts are grown wrathful and jealous
Toward those who have outraged your trust.
They jostle and crowd in our places,
They sneer at the comforts you gave.
We say, shut the door in their faces —
Until they have learned to behave !
In hearts that are greedy and hateful.
They harbour ill-will and deceit ;
They ask for more favours, ungrateful
For those you have poured at their feet.
Rise up in your grandeur, and straightway
Bar out the bold, clamouring mass ;
Let sentinels stand at your gateway.
To see who is worthy to pass.
Give first to your own faithful toilers
The freedom our birthright should claim.
78 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
And take from these ruthless despoilers
The power which they use to our shame.
Columbia, too long- you have dallied
With foes whom you feed from your store ;
It is time that your wardens were rallied,
And stationed outside the locked door.
THE ROOM BENEATH THE RAFTERS.
Sometimes when I have dropped to sleep,
Draped in a soft luxurious gloom,
Across my drowsing mind will creep
The memory of another room,
Where resinous knots in roofs boards made
A frescoing of light and shade,
And sighing poplars brushed their leaves
Against the humbly sloping eaves.
Again I fancy, in my dreams,
I'm lying in my trundle bed ;
I seem to see the bare old beams
And unhewn rafters overhead.
The mud-wasp's shrill falsetto hum
I hear again, and see him come
Forth from his dark-walled hanging house,
Dressed in his black and yellow blouse.
There, summer dawns, in sleep I stirred,
And wove into my fair dream's woof
The chattering of a martin bird,
Or raindrops pattering on the roof,
Or half awake, and half in fear,
I saw the spider spinning near
His pretty castle where the fly
Should come to ruin by and bv.
AN OLD FAN 79
And there I fashioned from my brain
Youth's shining structures in the air,
I did not wholly build in vain,
For some were lasting, firm and fair.
And I am one who lives to say
My life has held more gold than grey,
And that the splendour of the real
Surpassed my early dream's ideal.
But still I love to wander back
To that old time and that old place ;
To tread my way o'er memory's track,
And catch the early morning grace,
In that quaint room beneath the rafter
That echoed to my childish laughter ;
To dream again the dreams that grew
More beautiful as they came true.
AN OLD FAN.
(to kitty, her reverie.)
It is soiled and quite passe.
Broken too, and out of fashion,
But it stirs my heart some way,
As I hold it here to-day.
With a dead year's grace and passion.
Oh, my pretty fan !
Precious dream and thrilling strain.
Rise up from that vanished season ;
Back to heart and nerve and brain
Sweeps the joy as keen as pain,
Joy that asks no cause or reason.
Oh, my dainty fan !
8o POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Hopes that perished in a night
Gaze at me like spectral faces ;
Grim despair and lost delight,
Sorrow long since gone from sight-
All are hiding in these laces.
Oh, my broken fan !
Let us lay the thing away —
I am sadder now, and older ;
Fled the ballroom and the play —
You have had your foolish day.
And the night and life are colder.
Exit — little fan !
NO CLASSES!
No classes here ! Why, that is idle talk.
The village beau sneers at the country boor ;
The importuning mendicants who walk
Our cities' streets despise the parish poor.
The daily toiler at some noisy loom
Holds back her garments from the kitchen
aid.
Meanwhile the latter leans upon her broom,
Unconscious of the bow the laundress made.
The grocer's daughter eyes the farmer's lass
With haughty glances ; and the lawyer's wife
Would pay no visits to the trading class,
If policy were not her creed in life.
The merchant's son nods coldly at the clerk ;
The proud possessor of a pedigree
A GREY MOOD 8i
Ignores the youth whose father rose by work ;
The title-seeking- maiden scorns all three.
The aristocracy of blood looks down
Upon the *'nouveau riche " ; and in disdain.
The lovers of the intellectual frown
On both, and worship at the shrine of
brain.
" No classes here," the clergyman has said ;
" We are one family." Yet see his rage
And horror when his favourite son would
wed
Some pure and pretty player on the stage.
It is the vain but natural human way
Of vaunting our weak selves, our pride, our
worth !
Not till the long delayed millennial day
Shall we behold "no classes" on God's
earth.
A GREY MOOD.
As we hurry away to the end, my friend,
Of this sad little farce called existence,
We are sure that the future will bring one
thing,
And that is the grave in the distance.
And so when our lives run along all wrong,
And nothing seems real or certain,
We can comfort ourselves with the thought
(or not)
Of that spectre behind the curtain.
F
82 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
But we haven't much time to repine or whine,
Or to wound or jostle each other ;
And the hour for us each is to-day, I say,
If we mean to assist a brother.
And there is no pleasure that earth gives
birth,
But the worry it brings is double ;
And all that repays for the strife of life,
Is helping some soul in trouble.
I tell you, if I could go back the track
To my life's morning hour,
I would not set forth seeking name or fame.
Or that poor bauble called power.
I would be like the sunlight, and live to give ;
I would lend, but I would not borrow ;
Nor would I be blind and complain of pain.
Forgetting the meaning of sorrow.
This world is a vapourous jest at best,
Tossed off by the gods in laughter ;
And a cruel attempt at wit were it.
If nothing better came after.
It is reeking with hearts that ache and break.
Which we ought to comfort and strengthen.
As we hurry away to the end, my friend.
And the shadows behind us lengthen.
AT AN OLD DRAWER 8
o
AT AN OLD DRAWER.
Before this scarf was faded,
What hours of mirth it knew !
How gaily it paraded
For smiling eyes to view !
The days were tinged with glory,
The nights too quickly sped.
And life was like a story
Where all the people wed.
Before this rosebud wilted,
How passionately sweet
The wild waltz swelled and lilted
In time for flying feet !
How loud the bassoons muttered !
The horns grew madly shrill ;
And, oh ! the vows lips uttered
That hearts could not fulfil.
Before this fan was broken,
Behind its lace and pearl
What whispered words were spoken-
What hearts were in a whirl !
What homesteads were selected
In Fancy's realm of Spain !
What castles were erected.
Without a room for pain !
When this old glove was mated.
How thrilling seemed the play !
Maybe our hearts are sated —
They tire so soon to-day.
84 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Oh, shut away those treasures,
They speak the dreary truth —
We have outgrown the pleasures
And keen delights of youth.
THE CITY.
I OWN the charms of lovely Nature ; still,
In human nature more delight I find.
Though sweet the murmuring voices of the
rill,
I much prefer the voices of my kind.
I like the roar of cities. In the mart.
Where busy toilers strive for place and
gain,
I seem to read humanity's great heart,
And share its hopes, its pleasures, and its
pain.
The rush of hurrying trains that cannot
wait
The tread of myriad feet, all say to me :
'' You are the architect of your own fate ;
Toil on, hope on, and dare to do and
be."
I like the jangled music of the loud
Bold bells ; the whistle's sudden shrill
reply;
And there is inspiration in a crowd —
A magnetism flashed from eye to eye.
WOMAN 85
My sorrows all seem lightened and my joys
Augmented when the comrade world walks
near ;
Close to mankind my soul best keeps its poise.
Give me the great town's bustle, strife, and
noise,
And let who will, hold Nature's calm more
dear.
WOMAN.
Give us that grand word "woman" once
again,
And let's have done with "lady": one's a
term
Full of fine force, strong, beautiful, and firm.
Fit for the noblest use of tongue or pen ;
And one's a word for lackeys. One suggests
The Mother, Wife, and Sister ! One the
dame
Whose costly robe, mayhap, gives her the
name.
One word upon its own strength leans and
rests ;
The other minces tiptoe. Who would be
The perfect woman must grow brave of heart
And broad of soul to play her troubled part
Well in life's drama. While each day we
see
The " perfect lady " skilled in what to do
And what to say, grace in each tone and act
('Tis taught in schools, but needs some native
tact).
86 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Yet narrov/ in her mind as in her shoe.
Give the first place then to the nobler phrase,
And leave the lesser word for lesser praise.
THE LOST LAND.
There is a story of a beauteous land,
Where fields were fertile and where flowers
were bright ;
Where tall towers glistened in the morning-
light,
Where happy children wandered hand in
hand,
Where lovers wrote their names upon the
sand.
They say it vanished from all human sight,
The hungry sea devoured it in a night.
You doubt the tale ? ah, you will understand ;
For, as men muse upon that fable old.
They give sad credence always at the last,
However they have cavilled at its truth,
When with a tear -dimmed vision they be-
hold.
Swift sinking in the ocean of the Past,
The lovely lost Atlantis of their Youth.
LIFE'S JOURNEY 87
LIFE'S JOURNEY.
As we speed out of youth's sunny station
The track seems to shine in the light,
But it suddenly shoots over chasms
Or sinks into tunnels of night.
And the hearts that were brave In the
morning
Are filled with repining and fears,
As they pause at the City of Sorrow
Or pass through the Valley of Tears.
But the road of this perilous journey
The hand of the Master has made ;
With all its discomforts and dangers.
We need not be sad or afraid.
Paths leading from light Into darkness,
Ways plunging from gloom to despair,
Wind out through the tunnels of midnight
To fields that are blooming and fair.
Though the rocks and the shadows surround us,
Though we catch not one gleam of the day,
Above us fair cities are laughing.
And dipping white feet in some bay.
And always, eternal, for ever,
Down over the hills in the west,
The last final end of our journey,
There lies the great Station of Rest.
'Tis the Grand Central point of all railways,
All roads unite here when they end ;
'Tis the final resort of all tourists.
All rival lines meet here and blend.
88 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
All tickets, all seasons, all passes,
If stolen or begged for or bought,
On whatever road or division.
Will bring you at last to this spot.
If you pause at the City of Trouble,
Or wait in the Valley of Tears,
Be patient, the train will move onward.
And rush down the track of the years.
Whatever the place is you seek for.
Whatever your game or your quest,
You shall come at the last with rejoicing
To the beautiful City of Rest.
You shall store all your baggage of worries,
You shall feel perfect peace in this realm.
You shall sail with old friends on fair waters.
With joy and delight at the helm.
You shall wander in cool, fragrant gardens
With those who have loved you the best.
And the hopes that were lost in life's journey
You shall find in the City of Rest.
THE ACTOR.
On, man, with your wonderful dower,
Oh, woman, with genius and grace.
You can teach the whole world with your
power.
If you are but worthy the place,
The stage is a force and a factor
In moulding the thought of the day,
If only the heart of the actor
Is high as the theme of the play.
NEW YEAR 89
No discourse or sermon can reach us
Through feeling to reason like you ;
No author can stir us and teach us
With lessons as subtle and true.
Your words and your gestures obeying,
We weep or rejoice with your part,
And the player, behind all his playing,
He ought to be great as his art.
No matter what role you are giving.
No matter what skill you betray,
The everyday life you are living.
Is certain to colour the play.
The thoughts we call secret and hidden
Are creatures of malice, in fact ;
They steal forth unseen and unbidden.
And permeate motive and act.
The genius that shines like a comet
Fills only one part of God's plan,
If the lesson the world derives from it
Is marred by the life of the man.
Be worthy your work if you love it ;
The king should be fit for the crown ;
Stand high as your art, or above it.
And make us look up and not down.
NEW YEAR.
As the old year sinks down in Time's ocean,
Stand ready to launch with the new,
And waste no regrets, no emotion,
As the masts and the spars pass from view.
go POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Weep not if some treasures go under,
And sink in the rotten ship's hold,
That blithe bonny barque sailing yonder
May bring you more wealth than the old.
For the world is for ever improving,
All the past is not worth one to-day.
And whatever deserves our true lovingr.
Is stronger than death or decay.
Old love, was it wasted devotion ?
Old friends, were they weak or untrue?
Well, let them sink there in mid ocean.
And gaily sail on to the new.
Throw overboard toil misdirected,
Throw overboard ill-advised hope.
With aims which, your soul has detected,
Have self as their centre and scope.
Throw overboard useless regretting
For deeds which you cannot undo,
And learn the great art of forgetting
Old things which embitter the new.
Sing who will of dead years departed,
I shroud them and bid them adieu.
And the song that I sing, happy-hearted,
Is a song of the glorious new.
NOW.
One looks behind him to some vanished time
And says, ''Ah, I was happy then, alack !
I did not know it was my life's best prime —
Oh, if I could go back ! "
NOW 91
Another looks, with eager eyes aglow,
To some glad day of joy that yet will dawn,
And sighs, " I shall be happy then, I know.
Oh, let me hurry on."
But I — I look out on my fair To-day ;
I clasp it close and kiss its radiant brow,
Here with the perfect present let me stay.
For I am happy now !
(pocmB of &{fe
A SONG OF LIFE.
In the rapture of life and of living-,
I lift up my heart and rejoice,
And I thank the great Giver for giving-
The soul of my gladness a voice.
In the glow of the glorious weather,
In the sweet-scented sensuous air,
My burdens seem light as a feather —
They are nothing to bear.
In the strength and the glory of power,
In the pride and the pleasure of wealth
(For who dares dispute me my dower
Of talents and youth-time and health ?)
I can laugh at the world and its sages —
I am greater than seers who are sad,
For he is most wise In all ages
Who knows how to be glad.
I lift up my eyes to Apollo,
The god of the beautiful days,
And my spirit soars off like a swallow
And is lost in the light of its rays.
93
94 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Are you troubled and sad ? I beseech you
Come out of the shadows of strife —
Come out in the sun while I teach you
The secret of life.
Come out of the world — come above it —
Up over its crosses and graves.
Though the green earth is fair and I love it,
We must love it as masters, not slaves.
Come up where the dust never rises —
But only the perfume of flowers —
And your life shall be glad with surprises
Of beautiful hours.
Come up where the rare golden wine is
Apollo distils in my sight,
And your life shall be happy as mine is.
And as full of delight.
NOTHING BUT STONES.
I THINK I never passed so sad an hour.
Dear friend, as that one at the church
to-night.
The edifice from basement to the tower
Was one resplendent blaze of coloured light.
Up through broad aisles the stylish crowd was
thronging,
Each richly robed like some king's bidden
guest.
*' Here will I bring my sorrow and my
longing,"
I said, *'and here find rest."
NOTHING BUT STONES 95
I heard the heavenly organ's voice of thunder,
It seemed to give me infinite relief.
I wept. Strange eyes looked on in well-bred
wonder,
I dried my tears : their gaze profaned my
grief.
Wrapt in the costly furs, and silks and laces
Beat alien hearts that had no part with
me.
I could not read, in all those proud cold
faces,
One thought of sympathy.
I watched them bowing and devoutly
kneeling,
Heard their responses like sweet waters
roll;
But only the glorious organ's sacred pealing
Seemed gushing from a full and fervent
soul.
I listened to the man of holy calling :
He spoke of creeds, and hailed his own as
best ;
Of man's corruption and of Adam's falling,
But naught that gave me rest.
Nothing that helped me bear the daily
grinding
Of soul with body, heart with heated brain,
Nothing to show the purpose of this blinding
And sometimes overwhelming sense of pain.
And then, dear friend, I thought of thee, so
lowly,
So unassuming, and so gently kind.
And, lo ! a peace, a calm serene and holy,
Settled upon my mind.
96 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Ah, friend, my friend ! one true heart, fond
and tender,
That understands our troubles and our
needs,
Brings us more near to God than all the
splendour
And pomp of seeming- worship and vain
creeds.
One glance of thy dear eyes, so full of feeling,
Doth bring me closer to the Infinite
Than all that throng of worldly people
kneeling
In blaze of gorgeous light.
GETHSEMANE.
In golden youth when seems the earth
A Summer-land of singing mirth,
When souls are glad and hearts are light,
And not a shadow lurks in sight.
We do not know It, but there lies
Somewhere veiled under evening skies
A garden which we all must see —
The garden of Gethsemane.
With joyous steps we go our ways,
Love lends a halo to our days ;
Light sorrows sail like clouds afar,
We laugh, and say how strong we are.
We hurry on ; and hurrying, go
Close to the borderland of woe,
That waits for you, and waits for me —
Forever waits Gethsemane.
MOMUS, GOD OF LAUGHTER 97
Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams,
Bridged over by our broken dreams ;
Behind the misty caps of years,
Beyond the great salt fount of tears,
The garden lies. Strive as you may.
You cannot miss it in your way.
All paths that have been, or shalUae,
Pass somewhere through G^j^^^^ane.
All those who journey, soon or late.
Must pass within the garden's gate ;
Must kneel alone in darkness there.
And battle with some fierce despair.
God pity those who cannot say,
*' Not mine but thine," who only pray,
*' Let this cup pass," and cannot see
The purpose in Gethsemane.
MOMUS, GOD OF LAUGHTER.
Though with the gods the world is cumbered,
Gods unnamed, and gods unnumbered.
Never god was known to be
Who had not his devotee.
So I dedicate to mine.
Here in verse, my temple-shrine.
'Tis not Ares — mighty Mars,
Who can give success in wars ;
'Tis not Morpheus, who doth keep
Guard above us while we sleep ;
'Tis not Venus, she whose duty
*Tis to give us love and beauty.
G
gS POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Hail to these, and others, after
Momus, gleesome god of laughter.
Quirinus would guard my health,
Plutus would insure me wealth ;
Mercury looks after trade,
Hera smiles on youth and maid.
All are kind, I own their worth,
After Momus, god of mirth.
Though Apollo, out of spite.
Hides away his face of light.
Though Minerva looks askance,
Deigning me no smiling glance.
Kings and queens may envy me
While I claim the god of glee.
Wisdom wearies, Love has wings —
Wealth makes burdens. Pleasure stings.
Glory proves a thorny crown —
So all gifts the gods throw down
Bring their pains and troubles after ;
All save Momus, god of laughter.
He alone gives constant joy.
Hail to Momus, happy boy !
THE TWO GLASSES.
There sat two glasses filled to the brim.
On a rich man's table, rim to rim.
One was ruddy and red as blood,
And one was clear as the crystal flood.
THE TWO GLASSES 99
Said the glass of wine to his paler brother :
'' Let us tell tales of the past to each other ;
I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth,
Where I was king, for I ruled in might ;
For the proudest and grandest souls on earth
Fell under my touch, as though struck with
blight.
From the heads of kings I have torn the
crown ;
From the heights of fame I have hurled men
down.
I have blasted many an honoured name ;
I have taken virtue and given shame ;
I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,
That has made his future a barren waste.
Far greater than any king am I,
Or than any army beneath the sky.
I have made the arm of the driver fail,
And sent the train from the iron rail.
I have made good ships go down at sea,
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.
Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall,
And my might and power are over all !
Ho, ho ! pale brother," said the wine,
" Can you boast of deeds as great as mine ? "
Said the water-glass : ^' I cannot boast
Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host,
But I can tell of hearts that were sad
By my crystal drops made bright and glad ;
Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have
laved ;
Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.
I have leaped through the valley, dashed down
the mountain.
Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the
fountain.
loo POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
I have burst my cloud-fetters and dropped
from the sky,
And everywhere gladdened the prospect and
eye ;
I have eased the hot forehead of fever and
pain ;
I have made the parched meadows grow fertile
with grain.
I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,
That ground out the flour and turned at my will.
1 can tell of manhood debased by you,
That I have uplifted and crowned anew ;
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid ;
I gladden the heart of man and maid ;
I set the wine-chained captive free,
And all are better for knowing me."
These are the tales they told each other,
The glass of wine and its paler brother.
As they sat together, filled to the brim,
On a rich man's table, rim to rim.
WHAT WE NEED.
What does our country need? Not armies
standing
With sabres gleaming ready for the fight.
Not increased navies, skilful and commanding.
To bound the waters with an iron might.
Not haughty men with glutted purses trying
To purchase souls, and keep the power of
place.
Not jewelled dolls with one another vying
For palms of beauty, elegance, and grace.
WHAT WE NEED loi
But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly,
With that rare meekness, born of gentle-
ness,
Women whose lives are pure and clean and
holy,
The women whom all little children bless.
Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other,
With finest scorn for all things low and
mean ;
Women who hold the names of wife and mother
Far nobler than the title of a Queen.
Oh, these are they who mould the men of
story.
These mothers, ofttimes shorn of grace and
youth.
Who, worn and weary, ask no greater glory
Than making some young soul the home of
truth ;
Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowing
The seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin,
And, patient, watch the beauteous harvest
growing
And weed out tares which crafty hands cast
in.
Women who do not hold the gift of beauty
As some rare treasure to be bought and sold,
But guard it as a precious aid to duty —
The outer framing of the inner gold ;
Women who, low above their cradles bending,
Let flattery's voice go by, and give no heed,
While their pure prayers like incense are
ascending ;
These are our country's pride, our country's
need.
I02 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
IS IT DONE ?
It is done ! in the fire's fitful flashes,
The last line has withered and curled.
In a tiny white heap of dead ashes
Lie buried the hopes of your world.
There were mad foolish vows in each letter,
It is well they have shrivelled and burned.
And the ring ! oh, the ring was a fetter
It was better removed and returned.
But, ah, is it done? in the embers.
Where letters and tokens were cast.
Have you burned up the heart that remembers.
And treasures its beautiful past?
Do you think in this swift reckless fashion
To ruthlessly burn and destroy
The months that were freighted with passion.
The dreams that were drunken with joy?
Can you burn up the rapture of kisses
That flashed from the lips to the soul?
Or the heart that grows sick for lost blisses
In spite of its strength of control?
Have you burned up the touch of warm fingers
That thrilled through each pulse and each
vein,
Or the sound of a voice that still lingers
And hurts with a haunting refrain ?
Is it done? is the life drama ended?
You have put all the lights out, and yet.
Though the curtain, rung down, has descended.
Can the actors go home and forget ?
IN THE LONG RUN 103
Ah, no ! they will turn in their sleeping"
With a strange restless pain in their hearts,
And in darkness, and anguish and weeping,
Will dream they are playing their parts.
BURDENED.
Dear God ! there is no sadder fate in life,
Than to be burdened so that you cannot
Sit down contented with the common lot
Of happy mother and devoted wife.
To feel your brain wild and your bosom rife
With all the sea's commotion ; to be fraught
With fires and frenzies which you have not
sought.
And weighed down with the wide world's
weary strife.
To feel a fever always in your breast,
To lean and hear half in affright, half shame,
A loud-voiced public boldly mouth your name,
To reap your hard-sown harvest in unrest,
And know, however great your meed of fame.
You are but a weak woman at the best.
IN THE LONG RUN.
In the long run fame finds the deserving man.
The lucky wight may prosper for a day,
But in good time true merit leads the van,
And vain pretence, unnoticed, goes its way.
I04 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
There is no Chance, no Destiny, no Fate,
But Fortune smiles on those who work and
wait,
In the long run.
In the long run all goodly sorrows pay.
There is no better thing than righteous pain !
The sleepless nights, the awful thorn-crowned
days.
Bring sure reward to tortured soul and
brain.
Unmeaning joys enervate in the end,
But sorrow yields a glorious dividend —
In the long run.
In the long run all hidden things are known ;
The eye of truth will penetrate the night.
And good or ill, thy secret shall be known,
However well 'tis guarded from the light.
All the unspoken motives of the breast
Are fathomed by the years, and stand confest —
In the long run.
In the long run all love is paid by love.
Though undervalued by the hosts of earth ;
The great eternal Government above
Keeps strict account and will redeem its
worth.
Give thy love freely ; do not count the cost ;
So beautiful a thing was never lost
In the long run.
A SONG 105
A SONG.
Is anyone sad in the world, I wonder?
Does anyone weep on a day like this
With the sun above, and the green earth
under?
Why, what is life but a dream of bliss ?
With the sun, and the skies, and the birds
above me.
Birds that sing- as they wheel and fly —
With the winds to follow and say they love
me —
Who could be lonely ? O no, not I !
Somebody said, in the street this morning.
As I opened my window to let in the light.
That the darkest day of the world was dawn-
ing ;
But I looked, and the East was a gorgeous
sight.
One who claims that he knows about it
Tells me the Earth is a vale of sin ;
But I and the bees and the birds — we doubt it,
And think it a world worth living in.
Someone says that hearts are fickle,
That love is sorrow, that life is care,
And the reaper Death, with his shining sickle.
Gathers whatever is bright and fair.
I told the thrush, and we laughed together,
Laughed till the woods were all a-ring ;
io6 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
And he said to me, as he plumed each feather,
" Well, people must croak, if they cannot
sing."
Up he flew, but his song, remaining,
Rang like a bell in my heart all day.
And silenced the voices of weak complaining,
That pipe like insects along the way.
O world of light, and O world of beauty !
Where are there pleasures so sweet as
thine ?
Yes, life is love, and love is duty ;
And what heart sorrows ? O no, not mine !
TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY .^
A GIRL'S REVERIE.
Mother says, '^ Be in no hurry.
Marriage oft means care and worry."
Auntie says, with manner grave,
*' Wife is synonym for slave."
Father asks, in tones commanding,
** How does Bradstreet rate his standing? "
Sister, crooning to her twins.
Sighs, '* With marriage care begins."
Grandma, near life's closing days.
Murmurs, '' Sweet are girlhood's ways."
TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY? 107
Maud, twice widowed ("sod and grass")
Looks at me and moans " Alas ! "
They are six, and I am one,
Life for me has just begun.
They are older, calmer, wiser :
Age should aye be youth's adviser.
They must know — and yet, dear me,
When in Harry's eyes I see
All the world of love there burning —
On my six advisers turning,
I make answer, ''Oh, but Harry,
Is not like most men who marry.
** Fate has offered me a prize.
Life with love means Paradise.
*' Life without it is not worth
All the foolish joys of earth."
So, in spite of all they say,
I shall name the wedding day.
(poetnc of B,ovc
"SWEET DANGER."
The danger of war, with its havoc of life,
The danger of ocean, when storms are rife,
The danger of jungles, where wild beasts hide,
The danger that lies in the mountain slide —
Why, what are they but all mere child's play,
Or the idle sport of a summer day.
Beside those battles that stir and vex
The world forever, of sex with sex?
The warrior returns from the captured fort.
The mariner sails to a peaceful port ;
The wild beast quails 'neath the strong man's
eye.
The avalanche passes the traveller by —
But who can rescue from passion's pyre
The hearts that were offered to feed its fire ?
Ah ! he who emerges from that fierce flame
Is scarred with sorrow or blackened with
shame.
Battle and billow, and beast of prey,
They only threaten the mortal clay ;
109
no POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
The soul unfettered can take to wing-,
But the danger of love is another thing.
Once under the tyrant Passion's control,
He crushes body, and heart, and soul.
An hour of rapture, an age of despair,
Ah ! these are the trophies of love's warfare.
And yet forever, since time began,
Has man dared woman and woman lured
man
To that sweet danger that lurks and lies
In the bloodless battle of eyes with eyes ;
That reckless danger, as vast as sweet,
Whose bitter ending is joy's defeat.
Ah ! thus forever, while time shall last,
On passion's altar must hearts be cast !
A MAIDEN'S SECRET.
I HAVE written this day down in my heart
As the sweetest day in the season ;
From all of the others I've set it apart —
But I will not tell you the reason.
That is my secret — I must not tell ;
But the skies are soft and tender.
And never before, I know full well.
Was the earth so full of splendour.
I sing at my labour the whole day long,
And my heart is as light as a feather ;
And there is a reason for my glad song
Besides the beautiful weather.
A BABY IN THE HOUSE iii
But I will not tell it to you ; and though
That thrush in the maple heard it,
And would shout it aloud if he could, I know
He hasn't the power to word it.
Up, where I was sewing, this morn came one
Who told me the sweetest stories.
He said I had stolen my hair from the sun,
And my eyes from the morning glories.
Grandmother says that I must not believe
A word men say, for they flatter ;
But I'm sure he would never try to deceive
For he told me — but there — no matter !
Last night I was sad, and the world to me
Seemed a lonely and dreary dwelling,
But some one then had not asked me to be —
There now ! I am almost telling.
Not another word shall my two lips say,
I will shut them fast together.
And never a mortal shall know to-day
Why my heart is as light as a feather.
A BABY IN THE HOUSE.'
I KNEW that baby was hid in that house
Though I saw no cradle and heard no cry ;
But the husband was tip-toeing 'round like a
mouse,
And the good wife was humming a soft lullaby;
And there was a look on the face of the
mother,
That I knew could mean only one thing,
and no other.
112 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
The mother, I said to myself, for I knew
That the woman before me was certainly
that ;
And there lay in the corner a tiny cloth shoe,
And I saw on a stand such a wee little hat ;
And the beard of the husband said, plain as
could be,
^' Two fat chubby hands have been tug-ging at
me."
And he took from his pocket a gay picture-
book.
And a dog that would bark, if you pulled on
a string ;
And the wife laid them up, with such a pleased
look ;
And I said to myself, " There is no other
thing
But a babe that could bring about all this, and
so
That one is in hiding here somewhere, I
know."
I stayed but a moment, and saw nothing more,
And heard not a sound, yet I know I was
right ;
What else could the shoe mean that lay on the
floor.
The book and the toy, and the faces so
bright ;
And what made the husband as still as a
mouse?
J am sure, very sure, there's a babe in that
house.
I TOLD YOU 113
I TOLD YOU.
I TOLD you the winter would go, love,
I told you the winter would go.
That he'd flee in shame when the south wind
came,
And you smiled when I told you so.
You said the blustering fellow
Would never yield to a breeze.
That his cold, icy breath had frozen to death
The flowers, and birds, and trees.
And I told you the snow would melt, love.
In the passionate glance o' the sun ;
And the leaves o' the trees, and the flowers
and bees,
Would come back again, one by one.
That the great, grey clouds would vanish,
And the sky turn tender and blue ;
And the sweet birds would sing, and talk of
the spring,
And, love, it has all come true.
I told you that sorrow would fade, love,
And you would forget half your pain ;
That the sweet bird of song would waken ere
long.
And sing in your bosom again ;
That hope would creep out of the shadows,
And back to its nest in your heart,
And gladness would come, and find its old
home.
And that sorrow at length would depart.
H
114 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
I told you that grief seldom killed, love,
Though the heart may seem dead for awhile.
But the world is so bright, and so full of warm
light
That 'twould waken at length, in its smile.
Ah, love ! was I not a true prophet?
There's a sweet happy smile on your face ;
Your sadness has flown — the snow-drift is
gone,
And the buttercups bloom in its place.
A WAIF.
My soul is like a poor caged bird to-night.
Beating its wings against the prison bars.
Longing to reach the outer world of light.
And, all untrammeled, soar among the
stars.
Wild, mighty thoughts struggle within my
soul
For utterance. Great waves of passion roll
Through all my being. As the lightnings
play
Through thunder clouds, so beams of blinding
light
Flash for a moment on my darkened brain —
Quick, sudden, glaring beams, that fade
away
And leave me in a darker, deeper night.
Oh, poet souls ! that struggle all in vain
To live in peace and harmony with earth.
It cannot be ! They must endure the pain
Of conscience and of unacknowledged worth,
ONE WOMAN'S PLEA 115
Moving and dwelling- with thq common herd,
Whose highest thought has never strayed as
far,
Or never strayed beyond the horizon's bar ;
Whose narrow hearts and souls are never
stirred
With keenest pleasures, or with sharpest
pain ;
Who rise and eat and sleep, and rise again.
Nor question why or wherefore. Men whose
minds
Are never shaken by wild passion winds ;
Women whose broadest, deepest realm of
thought
The bridal veil will cover.
Who see not
God's mighty work lying undone to-day —
Work that a woman's hands can do as well.
Oh, soul of mine ; better to live alway
In this tumultuous inward pain and strife.
Doing the work that in thy reach doth fall,
Weeping because thou canst not do it all ;
Oh, better, my soul, in this unrest to dwell,
Than grovel as they grovel on through life.
ONE WOMAN^S PLEA.
Now God be with the men who stand
In legislative halls, to-day.
Those chosen princes of our land —
May God be with them all, I say.
And may His wisdom guide and shield them,
For mighty is the trust we yield them.
ii6 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
Oh, men ! who hold a people's fate,
There in the hollow of your hand.
Each word you utter, soon or late,
Shall leave its impress on our land —
Forth from the halls of legislation,
Shall speed its way through all our nation.
Then, may the Source of Truth, and Light,
Be ever o'er them, ever near,
And may He guide each word aright ;
May no false precept greet the ear.
No selfish love, for purse, or faction.
Stay Justice's hand, or guide one action.
And may no one, among these men
Lift to his lips the damning glass,
Let no man say, with truth, again.
What has been said, in truth, alas !
" Men drink, in halls of legislation —
Why shouldn't we, of lower station ? "
And may God's lasting curses fall
On those who hint, or boldly say,
That men have need of alcohol,
Or that wine helps them, anyway.
These imps of hell — for all who aid them
May God's eternal curse upbraid them.
Oh, men ! you see, you hear this beast,
This fiend that pillages the earth.
Whose work is death — whose hourly feast,
Is noble souls, and minds of worth —
You see — and if you will not chain him.
Nor reach one hand forth, to detain him,
IF 117
For God's sake, do not give him aid,
Nor urge him onward. Oh, to me
It seems so strange that laws are made
To crush all other crimes, while he
Who bears down through Hell's gaping portals
The countless souls of rum-wrecked mortals
Is left to wander, to and fro.
In perfect freedom through the land,
And those who ought to see, and know,
Win lift no warning voice or hand.
Oh, men In halls of legislation,
Rise to the combat, save the nation !
IF.
If I were sent to represent
A portion of a nation
I would not chat, on this and that,
In the halls of legislation.
To show my power, I'd waste no hour
In aimless talk and bother.
Nor fritter away a precious day
On this and that and the other.
Whether the food a dog consumes
W^ouldn't make a porker fatter,
And about a thousand useless things,
Of no import or matter —
Whether each day a man should pray
For our welfare, or shouldn't.
Now I do not say men do this way ;
I merely say I wouldn't !
ii8 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
No ! were I sent to represent
A state, or town, or county,
I'd do some g"ood, and all I could,
To earn the people's bounty.
Instead of a dog, or a fattening hog,
I'd talk about men's drinking!
And, with words of fire, I would inspire
The stolid and unthinking.
And the time that I might idly waste,
(I don't say men do waste it),
I'd spend in pleading for my cause.
And, with tongue and pen, I'd haste it
Through all the land, till a mighty band,
With laws and legislation.
Should cleanse the stain and cut the chain
That binds our helpless nation.
And little need would there be then,
When that bright sun had risen,
Of asylum wings or building sites —
Of county or State prison.
The need is made by the liquor trade !
Oh, ye wise, sage law-makers,
■"Tis the friend you smile upon that makes
Our madmen and law-breakers.
LIMITLESS.
There is nothing, I hold, in the way of work
That a human being may not achieve
If he does not falter, or shrink or shirk.
And more than all, if he will believe.
LIMITLESS 119
Believe in himself and the power behind
That stands like an aid on a dual ground,
With hope for the spirit and oil for the
wound,
Ready to strengthen the arm or mind.
When the motive is right and the will is strong
There are no limits to human power ;
For that great force back of us moves along
And takes us with it, in trial's hour.
And whatever the height you yearn to climb,
Tho' it never was trod by the foot of man,
And no matter how steep — I say you can.
If you will be patient — and use your timef.
QpoetuB of (Keffectton
BOHEMIA.
Bohemia, o'er thy unatlassed borders
How many cross, with half-reluctant feet,
And unformed fears of dangers and disorders,
To find delights, more wholesome and more
sweet
Than ever yet were known to the " elite.''''
Herein can dwell no pretence and no seeming ;
No stilted pride thrives in this atmosphere.
Which stimulates a tendency to dreaming. %
The shores of the ideal world, from here,
Seem sometimes to be tangible and near.
We have no use for formal codes of fashion ;
No " Etiquette of Courts " we emulate ;
We know it needs sincerity and passion
To carry out the plans of God, or fate ;
We do not strive to seem inanimate.
We call no time lost that we give to pleasure ;
Life's hurrying river speeds to Death's great
sea :
122 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
We cast out no vain plummet-line to measure
Imagined depths of that unknown To Be,
But grasp the No7V, and fill it full of glee.
All creeds have room here, and we all together
Devoutly worship at Art's sacred shrine ;
But he who dwells once in thy golden weather,
Bohemia — sweet, lovely land of mine —
Can find no joy outside thy border-line.
LINES FROM "MAURINE."
I'd rather have my verses win
A place in common people's hearts,
Who, toiling through the strife and din
Of life's great thoroughfares, and marts,
May read some line my hand has penned ;
Some simple verse, not fine, or grand.
But what their hearts can understand
And hold me henceforth as a friend —
I'd rather win such quiet fame
Than by some fine thought, polished so
But those of learned minds would know,
Just what the meaning of my song —
To have the critics sound my name
In high-flown praises, loud and long.
I sing not for the critic's ear,
But for the masses. If they hear.
Despite the turmoil, noise and strife.
Some least low note that gladdens life,
I shall be wholly satisfied.
Though critics to the end deride.
WHEN 123
WHEN.
I DWELL in the western inland,
Afar from the sounding sea,
But I seem to hear it sobbing"
And calling aloud to me,
And my heart cries out for the ocean
As a child for its mother's breast.
And I long to lie on its waters
And be lulled in its arms to rest.
I can close my eyes and fancy
That I hear its mighty roar.
And I see its blue waves splashing
And plunging against the shore ;
And the white foam caps the billow,
And the sea-gulls wheel and cry,
And the cool wild wind is blowing
And the ships go sailing by.
Oh, wonderful, mighty ocean !
When shall I ever stand.
Where my heart has gone already,
There on thy gleaming strand !
When shall I ever wander
Away from this inland west,
And stand by thy side, dear ocean.
And rock on thy heaving breast?
124 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. ^
Life has its shadows, as well as its sun ;
Its lights and its shades, all twined together.
I tried to single them out, one by one,
Single and count them, determining whether
There was less blue than there was grey,
And more of the deep night than of the day.
But dear me, dear me, my task's but begun.
And I am not half way into the sun.
For the longer I look on the bright side of
earth,
The more of the beautiful do I discover ;
And really, I never knew what life was worth
Till I searched the wide storehouse of
happiness over.
It is filled from the cellar well up to the skies.
With things meant to gladden the heart and
the eyes.
The doors are unlocked, you can enter each
room.
That lies like a beautiful garden in bloom.
Yet life has its shadow, as well as its sun ;
Earth has its storehouse of joy and of
sorrow.
But the first is so wide — and my task's but
begun —
That the last must be left for a far distant
morrow.
I will count up the blessings God gave in a row,
But dear me ! when I get through them, I know
I shall have little time left for the rest.
For life is a swift-flowing river at best.
THE BELLE'S SOLILOQUY 125
THE BELLE^S SOLILOQUY.
Heigh ho ! well, the season's over !
Once again we've come to Lent !
Programme's changed from balls and parties-
Now we're ordered to repent.
Forty days of self-denial !
Tell you what I think it pa3's —
Know't'l freshen my complexion
Going slow for forty days.
No more savoury Frenchy suppers —
Such as Madame R can give.
Well, I need a little thinning —
Just a trifle — sure's you live !
Sometimes been afraid my plumpness
Might grow into downright fat.
Rector urges need of fasting — ^
Think there's lot of truth in that.
We must meditate, he tells us,
On our several acts of sin.
And repent them. Let me see now —
Whereabouts shall I begin !
Flirting — yes, they say 'tis wicked ;
Well, I'm awful penitent,
(Wonder if my handsome major
Goes to early mass through Lent ?)
Love of dress ! I'm guilty there, too —
Guess it's my besetting sin.
Still I'm somewhat like the lilies,
For I neither toil nor spin.
Forty days I'll wear my plainest —
Could repentance be more true ?
126 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
What a saving on my dresses !
They'll make over just like new.
Pride, and worldliness and all that,
Rector bade us pray about
Every day through Lenten season.
And I mean to be devout !
Papa always talks retrenchment —
Lent is just the very thing.
Hope he'll get enough in pocket
So we'll move up town next spring.
THE MUSICIANS.
The strings of my heart were strung by
Pleasure,
And I laughed when the music fell on my
ear,
For he and Mirth played a joyful measure,
And they played so loud that I could not
hear
The wailing and mourning of souls a-weary —
The strains of sorrow that floated around.
For my heart's notes rang out loud and cheery,
And I heard no other sound.
Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,
Played louder and louder in joyful glee ;
But sometimes a discord was heard by others —
Though only the rhythm was heard by me.
Louder and louder, and faster and faster.
The hands of the brothers played strain on
strain,
THE MUSICIANS 127
When all of a sudden a Mighty Master
Swept them aside ; and Pain,
Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner,
Restrung the strings of my quivering heart,
And the air that he played was a plaintive
minor.
So sad that the tear-drops were forced to
start ;
Each note was an echo of awful anguish.
As shrill as solemn, as sharp as slow,
And my soul for a season, seemed to languish
And faint with its weiefht of woe.
£5'
With skilful hands that were never weary,
This Master of Music played strain on
strain.
And between the bars of the miserere,
He drew up the strings of my heart again.
And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder,
To see that they did not snap in two.
"They are drawn so tight, they will break
asunder,"
I thought, but instead, they grew.
In the hands of the Master, firmer and
stronger ;
And I could hear on the stilly air —
Now my ears were deafened by Mirth no
longer —
The sound of sorrow, and grief, and despair ;
And my soul grew kinder and tender to others.
My nature grew sweeter, my mind grew
broad.
And I held all men to be my brothers,
Linked by the chastening rod.
128 POEMS OF ELLA W. WILCOX
My soul was lifted to God and heaven,
And when on my heart-strings fell again
The hands of Mirth, and Pleasure, even,
There was never a discord to mar the strain.
For Pain, the musician, and soul-refiner.
Attuned the strings with a master hand,
And whether the music be major or minor,
It is always sweet and grand.
Printed by Morrison & Gibb Limited, Edinburgh
Poems.
W. P. Nimmo
( [191-?])
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